


Borrowed Time

by Killbothtwins



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ankh-Morpork City Watch, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Fantasy, Footnotes, Life-timers (Discworld), Magic, Spoilers Past Night Watch, Unseen University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:55:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26371540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killbothtwins/pseuds/Killbothtwins
Summary: Ankh-Morpork is struck with a crime spree. Well, reverse-crime spree. The Watch is (reluctantly) on the case. People are dying, and it's up to Vimes, Carrot, and Angua to figure out why. The Watch makes an interesting new ally, a fellow who talks in Aʟʟ Cᴀᴘs...
Comments: 38
Kudos: 44





	1. 1

**A NEW CRIME • A CLOG IN THE DRAINPIPE • THE TWO SAMS • CLUES • AN ORDINARY MAN VISITS THE WATCH • OFF TO SEE THE WIZARDS**

What Commander Sam Vimes had on his hands was a headache. 

This was actually true in both the literal and metaphorical sense of the term. The headache had started at 6’oclock that morning when he stepped into the Watch House, and had only increased since then. Thus, the literal— he had his head in his hands as he listened to the newest complainant in his office. 

“It’s just not right, sir, not right at all,” said Bit-of-Allright Monten, worrying his hat in his hands. “We can’t stand for it, sir, no, not us.” 

“We know about the issue, Bit,” Vimes said, muffled by the desk. “We’re looking into it.” 

“But it’s not right!” 

The headache pounded behind Vimes’ eyes. Bit-of-Allright was part of the Confectioners’ Guild, and smelled nauseatingly of sweet. He was a round, fat man, like most of the Confectioners, and his face was currently red with upset, not wine. This was clearly, in Bit-of-Allright’s mind, the worst part of this whole business. 

Suddenly, Vimes snapped his head up. “What’s illegal about this?!?” he said, before he could stop himself. “Mr. Monten, I would simply _love it_ if you could tell me what’s illegal about this, and I’ll get right out to _doing my job_ and trying to stop it from happening again!” 

Bit slumped a little bit. There was silence that stretched on for a few blessed minutes. “I don’t like it,” he said. “Just… well, just _look at it.”_

They looked at it. 

Sitting on Vimes’ desk, where it had sat since Bit had been led in by Detritus, was an hourglass. It was, all things said, a fairly normal hourglass, with sand pouring slowly but steadily through it. It was made almost entirely of glass, and had a bit of a pinkish sheen, like a candy. Engraved on the top, it said _Bartimus Oliver Allright Monten._

Vimes picked it up and turned it over. 

The sand flipped orientation so that it was still falling the same direction as before. 

It is a little spooky, Vimes did _not_ say, because he was a professional member of the Watch. But he thought it. 

The hourglasses had started showing up the night before. The complaints, in the fine tradition of the city, had started very shortly after. There was nothing really that sinister on the face of it: people were suddenly checking their pockets and finding that they had been reverse-pickpocketed. 

Ankh-Morpork was the kind of city that had Opinions. And one opinion was that they Did Not Like The Hourglasses. [1]

“It’s not like whoever is putting them there is stealing anything from you, right?” Vimes asked, a little desperately. It hadn’t worked on any of the others. It wouldn’t work on the city, who liked what they considered My Property to _stay_ My Property, Or Else I Have A Long Stick If You Want Something of Mine Up Your— “So it’s like a gift.” 

“That’s even worse, sir,” sulked Bit, who was still pouty after Vimes’ little shout. “I don’t want to _owe_ someone something.” 

“It’s even personalized!” Vimes said, shaking the hourglass. The sand seemed unaffected by this. “Very thoughtful.” 

“Only me old mam calls me Bartimus,” Bit said. “Can’t you make them take it back?” 

“You could throw it away,” suggested Vimes. 

Bit looked at him, aghast. “It has me _name_ on it, sir.” 

Vimes lowered his head carefully back onto the desk and closed his eyes. “Thank you, Bit. We’re looking into it.” 

There was a little _chink,_ as Bit-of-Allright picked up his hourglass, then footsteps as he retreated. Then there were footsteps again, new ones. 

“Carrot, has the city gone mad?” Vimes asked the desk. 

“No sir!” Captain Carrot said, sounding offended by the idea. Vimes had known it was him by the sound of his walking. Carrot was a big man who was used to living among small men, and he had a stride that couldn’t be stopped by anything less than a troll, if the troll was feeling up to facing Carrot’s disappointed face. “I should think we’re exactly as mad as usual.” 

“Is that reassuring?” Vimes asked rhetorically, and finally raised his head. “Did we get more reports?” 

“Yessir,” Carrot said. “Almost fifty hourglasses so far, Commander.” 

“Ye gods,” Vimes said. “We must have a very tired reverse-pickpocket on our hands.” 

Carrot nodded. “I was going to go walk the streets where the reverse-pickpocketer reverse-pickpocketed,” he said. “Maybe someone saw something.” 

Vimes was doubtful. “Ankh-Morporkians usually know better than to see something, Carrot.” 

Angua knocked on the open doorframe. “There are more people here to complain about their hourglasses.” 

“On second thought,” Vimes said, shooting to his feet. “It always pays to be thorough.” 

* * *

[1] Other things they Did Not Like were: Taxes (Unfair and Predjudix Against Me Specifically), Hot Summer Days (the river Ankh), Pies Which Cost More Than They Should (self-explanatory), Politicians (even more obvious), and Outsiders Who Complained About Ankh-Morpork’s Politicians (because the only ones allowed to complain about Ankh-Morpork was Ankh-Morpork, Thank You). 

* * *

“Yeah, I got one,” said Bricka Deephenge. She produced a squat hourglass from her apron and passed it up to Carrot. Bricka Deephenge was a barkeep at one of the dwarfish bars Carrot frequented. Vimes and Carrot had run into her while she was taking an extended smoke break out back. 

Deephenge’s hourglass was sturdy, made of more stone than glass. Her name, or what Vimes had to assume was her name, was written in Dwarfish runes. 

“It’s interesting work,” the dwarf said. 

“How so?” Vimes accepted the hourglass from Carrot and flipped it over. The sand didn’t change direction. 

“It can’t be destroyed,” Deephenge said. “Soon’s I got it, I tried to destroy it.” 

“Dwarfs say it’s bad luck to have your True Name writ by someone who isn’t you, sir,” Carrot said. [2]

Deephenge nodded, scratching at her beard. “And this is the truest of my true names,” she said, indicating the hourglass. Vimes handed it back to her. “So I took it to my cousin’s forge— not even the hottest fire could melt it, nor the strongest axe break it.” 

“One of the golems stepped on one by accident this morning,” Carrot said thoughtfully. “Not even a scratch.” 

Vimes was becoming uneasy. Plenty of strange things happened in Ankh-Morpork, but this one was odd even for the city, probably because Vimes had never known anyone to give something out for free when they could make a scam of it. A new trend— personalized hourglass! Don’t be caught dead without one! Someone could be making a fortune if they wanted to. 

“And you didn’t see who slipped it into your pocket?” Vimes asked. 

Deephenge blinked. “Oh, no, definitely not. I found it in me boot.” 

* * *

[2] Carrot was naturally predisposed to say things with Capital Letters. It was the earnestness.

* * *

No one they talked to had seen the reverse-pickpocketer. Every hourglass was inscribed with the recipient’s name, and they all were of different make. A troll they talked to had an hourglass nearly as large as Carrot’s head. 

None of them could be destroyed. 

In Ankh-Morporkian entrepreneurial fashion, several people had started booths where they bought and then sold— at hugely marked-up prices— people’s timers. 

Just looking at the hourglasses gave Vimes a kind of uncomfortable chill up the back of his neck, under the chainmail. There was nothing sinister about them, and they didn’t seem to be hurting anybody as of yet. And, like he said, there was nothing illegal about slipping people thoughtful, personalized gifts in secret. 

“Carrot,” Vimes said. “Is there anything illegal about slipping people thoughtful, personalized gifts in secret?” 

Carrot considered this deeply. “Well, it’s illegal to give someone else a murder weapon which hasn’t been cleared by the Guild of Assassins,” he said. “And _The Laws and Ordinances of the Cities Ankh and Morpork_ section 345b says it’s illegal to give Klatchian apple pies as a gift.” 

“Really?” Vimes asked, momentarily derailed. “Why?” 

“Don’t know, sir,” Carrot said. “But it must be important— it’s the law.” Carrot had the distinct honor of being the only Watchman who had the _Laws and Ordinances_ memorized [3]. Carrot was usually of the opinion that there had to be a reason behind the things politicians had put on the books. Vimes, a realist, had no such illusions. 

“Right,” Vimes said, mentally steering the cart back onto the track with a shake of his head. The headache had abated a little as they’d walked the city, and spiked a little as they walked near the Ankh, but that was to be expected in summer. “Where the hell are these things coming from?” 

Vimes slunk back to the Watch House when it appeared most of the citizens had given up and gone home. He dismissed Carrot to do— well, Carrot usually did what he wanted— and went to speak to some of his other Watchmen. 

“We’ve set up bait patrolmen,” Angua said, holding her helmet under her arm in the sun of the training area of Pseudopolis Yard. “You know— one to stand in the street, two more to watch him?” 

“And?” Vimes said. 

“And both the watchers got reverse-pickpocketed,” Angua said with a grimace. 

Vimes sighed. “Who got it?” 

“Igor, sir,” Angua said. “And Downspout.” 

“Downspout?” Vimes asked, aghast. “But he hasn’t got clothes!” 

“Yes, and we’re all confused about it,” Angua said. “He won’t tell us where he found it, but it _was_ covered in rainwater.” The Watch’s gargoyle copper was a hard man to sneak up to, and an even harder man to _reach._ He liked the high places. 

“Have you smelled anything?” Commander Vimes asked. 

Angua scrunched her nose. “Actually, sir, they all smell a bit off. I don’t know how to explain it. Makes me have to sneeze.” 

The citizens had begun to cotton onto the werewolf in the Watch, though it was only rumor for the moment. But they had started coming up with ideas to mask their scents while doing crime, which was worrying. It was even more worrying if whoever was leaving these “gifts” felt the need to remain undetected even by the Watch. 

Vimes hadn’t been really hungover in a long time, but he felt suddenly that he’d like to be. Even the light glinting off his badge and helmet was annoying him. “I’m going home for lunch,” he announced suddenly. “Will everything be all right here if I step out?”  
  
Angua gave him a sympathetic look. “We’ll be fine,” she said. “Don’t step on any more dragon tails, OK?” 

* * *

[3] Or had read them. 

* * *

Young Sam Vimes was doing fine creative work with the vigor of only a one-year-old when Commander Sam Vimes entered Ramkin House. 

“Bah-bah!” Young Sam announced, with great cheer. 

Vimes felt his face split into a smile, despite himself. With a great creak, he lowered himself to the floor to be on the level with his son, who was finger-painting on a large canvas. Young Sam immediately abandoned the endeavor to crawl towards Vimes, waiting to be picked up. 

Vimes did so. “Fine work,” he said, examining the canvas, which was a blur of greens, reds, and dragon footprints. “It looks just like a Watchman, if I do say so myself.” 

“Ah-bah!” Young Sam agreed. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” said the voice of Sybil, coming in through a side door. “I only stepped away for a moment,” she explained. “Mrs. Fluffypoo sounded like she had an upset stomach.” 

In the world of dragon-rearing, this was a serious threat. 

Vimes smiled anyway, tilting his head up to look at her. When you were talking about Lady Sybil Ramkin, you had quite the long way to go. 

“You’re home early,” Sybil said, lowering herself to sit beside them both and examining the canvas with a critical eye. 

Vimes grunted. “Thought I’d step out for lunch.” 

“You’re working on the hourglass business?” Sybil asked. Young Sam wriggled, and Vimes let him go, where he attacked the painting once more with a spattering of ugly yellow. 

Vimes looked up in alarm. “You haven’t got one, have you?” Sybil and Young Sam had been home all day, so far as Vimes knew— no reverse-pickpocketer was getting into _his_ home. 

“Don’t fret so much, dear,” Sybil said, leaning over to peck a dragon-scented kiss to his cheek. She was wearing her big hip-waders and a giant fireproof coat, which meant that she’d been out in the stables that day. She looked beautiful. She leaned over to brush a fleck of dragon goo off her wig, away from Young Sam’s painting. “But Marjorie found one in her—” she glanced at Young Sam. “Underthings when she pulled them down to use the privy.” 

Vimes made a face. While he couldn’t keep up with his wife’s constant stream of fellow dragon carers, friends, nobles who were willing to give money to said dragon carers, and hobnobbing rich people, he could well picture Marjorie. She would look like all the rest of the fancy people Sybil hung around with— not someone you wanted to be shoving an hourglass down the knickers of. 

“Don’t make that face,” said the Lady Ramkin, at the same time that Young Sam giggled and imitated his father’s expression. 

Vimes tried his best to look guilty. 

“Well, anyhow, lunch is almost ready,” Sybil said. “I’m glad you’re here to take it with us, no matter the reason.” 

And Vimes stopped himself from saying anything soppy like _me too._ A man had a reputation to uphold. 

* * *

Despite his best efforts, Vimes ended up running into Marjorie on his way back to the Yard. He could tell she was a Marjorie just by the way she dressed. Vimes never knew dragon-keeping gear could look so expensive, or so shiny. 

“Oh, Sam, dear!” she shouted from the gate leading into the dragon sanctuary. Shoulders slumping, Vimes turned to look at her. Marjorie beckoned him to come closer. 

That was always the type, thought Vimes. They could never come to _you_ when they were asking for a favor, always making you do all the work. And yet here I come anyway… 

She waved her handkerchief at him. “I wasn’t expecting you home,” she said, with the familiarity of someone who had met him before. Probably she had. Vimes made a habit of forgetting the faces of the rich and famous. “I’m afraid I have a little problem I need your help with.” 

“If it’s about the hourglasses, the Watch is doing all it can,” Vimes said. He glanced behind him, like a man on death row with hope of a reprieve. As often happens on death row, no one else was willing to stick their neck out instead. 

“Oh, it is,” Marjorie said. She pulled out an hourglass from the depths of a handbag. The smells of mothballs and brandy wafted out with it, gasping for air, and were trapped again once more as she snapped it shut. “Look at this!” 

Vimes looked. 

It was one of the more ornate hourglasses, made with very fine and delicate glass, and lots of flourishes. Some kind of flower pattern was etched into the glass itself, and her name was written in cursive so elegant as to be almost illegible. 

“Very nice,” he said politely. 

Marjorie rolled her eyes. That was another thing about the Marjories of the world. They had a way of making you feel like a very young boy, regardless of how long ago you had been young or whether or not you now had your _own_ young boy. “No, young man. Look!” She shook it, which of course did not make the sand fall any faster or slower. 

“It’s almost empty,” Vimes observed, a little interested despite himself. None of the hourglasses he’d seen so far were almost empty. They varied in fullness and speed of sand, but not enough that Vimes had thought it was important. 

“Oh, _really?”_ Marjorie asked. “You see, I was watching your Young Sam while Sybil did feeding time with the dragons, and I stepped out to, er, powder my nose. And this fell out of my, er, powerdering bag!” She pressed it further into his face. “I want you to find out why I don’t have as much sand and where I can buy more.” 

“Buy… more?” Vimes said slowly. 

“Yes, well, there must be someplace to get more. It’s embarrassing, you know, when all your high-class friends have almost full hourglasses, and yours has so little.” She sniffed. “When you catch the pickpocketer—” 

“ _Reverse_ pickpocketer.” 

“Be sure to ask him where to buy it.” She looked him over consideringly, eyeing the rusted armor, the boots which he had dug out of the trash before Sybil could stop him, the Watch badge. “Well, _if_ you catch him. Good day, Sir Vimes.” 

Oooh. _Sir_ Vimes. Commander Vimes hated that, and Marjorie knew it, by the look in her eye. These old women were canny. Vimes forced a smile. “I’ll be sure,” he said. “Good day.” 

On instinct, Vimes looked back at the manor. Sybil was standing in the front window with Young Sam on her hip, stifling a smile that oozed schadenfreude. Vimes made the same face as earlier, but with his eyes crossed and his cheeks puffed. 

Young Sam squealed with laughter as Vimes turned away again, with a little bit more of a skip in his step. 

* * *

Vimes entered the Watch House through the coach yard, hoping to avoid more suddenly begifted citizens. Dorfl was standing by the desk when he came in, staring stolidly at a wall. Sergeants Colon and Cheery were demonstrating their great professionalism to the lower-ranked members of the Watch by playing tic-tac-toe on Dorfl's clay skin. The golem didn’t seem to mind. 

“Allright, Watch?” Vimes asked, nodding in brusque greeting. 

“Heya, Commander,” Cheery said. She was perched on a desk for better ease of access, and holding a piece of charcoal with a look of concentration. “Five more hourglasses came in whiles you were out, and Shoe found one in his helmet.” 

“Great,” Vimes grumbled. 

Colon smirked. “Pop home for lunch, Commander?” 

Vimes bristled. “There’s a crisis going on in these streets, Sergeant.” 

“You have a blue handprint up the side of your breastplate, sir,” Cheery said helpfully. Deliberately, she marked an _X_ on Dorfl’s tic-tac-toe board. There were several other grids scattered here and there— on most of them, the _X’s_ were the victor. 

Vimes and Colon both swore, for different reasons. Colon scowled, clearly wondering where his great tic-tac-toe mistake was. 

“I’ll be in my office,” Vimes said. “Tell the patrolmen on the front to start screening the people complaining about their hourglasses— only let them in if they know something new.” 

“Wait, Sir,” Dorfl said, moving only his head so the game wouldn’t be interrupted. His eyes shone deep in their sockets. “You Have A Visitor.” 

“A visitor?” Vimes asked, halfway through his escape up the back stairs to his office. “Don’t tell me this is about the damned—” 

“It Is About The Hourglasses, Sir,” said Dorfl. “But He Was Very Insistent, Sir, and Captain Carrot Says We Should Make Nice With The City Officials.” 

Vimes paled. “It’s not Vetinari, is it?” 

“No Sir. It Is The Postmaster General.” 

“Oh,” Vimes relaxed, then tensed up again remembering how much of a handful a conversation with Moist von Lipwig usually turned out to be. “Oh.” He sighed. 

Colon was scratching his head as Cheery drew up the next board. “We could send Carrot in to deal with him instead,” he suggested. “The lad actually seems to like talking to the common man.” 

“I ran into him on the way out,” Vimes said, starting the trek up the stairs again. “C.M.O.T Dibbler started selling counterfeit hourglasses— Carrot’s on his way to break it up.” 

The upstairs of the Watch House was far more crowded than on a regular day. Angua was taking complaints in her office still, and some of the other Watchmen had been roped in to take routine grievances as well. Lines stretched out the doors of most of the offices, and a few Ankh-Morporkians were slouched on chairs scattered throughout the hallway. Most looked sulky and were clutching hourglasses. 

Vimes scanned the hall once, then twice, and didn’t see Moist. He stepped towards his office, wondering if he was in there. From a chair a few steps away, there was a little cough. 

“Oh, Postmaster,” Vimes said. “Didn’t see you there.” 

Moist stood up, smiling. Vimes didn’t like his smile. It was very honest— suspiciously honest, if on a very, very ordinary face. “Understandable, Commander,” he said. 

“Not wearing the gold suit today then?” Vimes asked, stepping towards his office to unlock it. Moist followed at his heels. 

“No,” Moist said. “It does things to a man’s reputation to be seen at a Watch House voluntarily.” 

Vimes eyed him suspiciously as he moved aside to let Moist into the room. “The reputation of a Postmaster General?” 

“That too, sure,” Moist said, and waited politely for Vimes to sit at the desk before he followed suit on the other end. He wasn’t wearing the winged cap or the top hat today either, but he took off his ordinary slouched hat and decorously balanced it on his knees. Vimes did not like Moist von Lipwig. 

“Sergeant Dorfl tells me you had an important matter to speak to me about,” Vimes said, leaning back in his desk chair. 

Moist put an hourglass on the desk. “I found this in my pocket this afternoon.”  
  
Vimes stared despairingly at it. “Yes, that seems to be catching,” he said. 

Moist’s hourglass was not as golden as Vimes had imagined, or as shiny. It was, in fact, made mostly of glass, with a practical wooden frame. It was hard to see the sand inside for all the engraving on the glass. 

“Why are there so many names on it?” Vimes asked.

“Ha-ha, never mind,” Moist said, spiriting away the hourglass somewhere onto his person. “The point of this is that there’s no way someone could have slipped it into my pocket.” 

“Yes, we’ve heard that one before. Listen, don’t feel bad about it; whoever’s doing this is mighty fast.” 

“No, you misunderstand me, Commander Vimes,” Moist said. “There is _no way someone put this in my pocket._ I know every trick in the book.” He coughed. “Through study, of course. I watch out for that sort of thing. And anyway, I spent most of my day sequestered in my office with only the occasional company of the Head Post Office Cat, and Mr. Tiddles certainly doesn’t have the age for reverse-pickpocketing any more.” 

There was that chill again. “What are you saying, Moist?” 

“I’m saying, Vimes, that maybe it’s time you start looking beyond the natural for this little problem of ours.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” said Vimes, sighing. 

Moist nodded, satisfied with the turn the conversation had gone even if Vimes wasn’t particularly. Then, suddenly, he grinned. This, Vimes thought, was Moist von Lipwig’s real smile. It was worrying. “And you better get on it quick,” Moist said. “Because no golems have gotten one yet, and my fiancee is raring ready to go with a discrimination lawsuit.” 

Vimes goggled. “They _want_ hourglasses?” 

“Oh, no, they’re as wary as a golem can be, which I have to admit is not that much. But Adora Belle says it’s the principle of the thing.” 

“Who is Miss Dearheart planning on suing?” 

“Oh, I expect she’ll find someone,” said Moist, proudly. “Goodbye, Commander Vimes. Good luck with this mystery.”

“Don’t say that,” Vimes groaned as Moist exited the office as unmemorably as he came. “I _hate_ mysteries.” 

After a moment of consideration, deep longing for the bottle of rotgut in his top desk drawer that Sybil had already confiscated, and deep despair, Vimes made himself get up and go to Angua’s office.  
  
“I’m going to see the University,” he told her, looking under the desk. 

She poked a head up. “These nutters are going to drive me mad,” she said. “No one saw you come in here, did they?” Then his words registered and she stood up, brushing off her knees. “Oh, is that an invitation? If not, I’m coming anyway.” 

“Yes, it’s an invitation, Captain von Uberwald,” Vimes said. What he didn’t say was, _you think I’m going to talk to the wizards all on my own?_

* * *

No one _liked_ going to the Unseen University. There was something about it that bothered the mind, made your eyes want to skip over it if you weren’t a wizard or a student. Maybe it was the fact that it sometimes looked like the top floors had been built before the bottom, or that you could occasionally happen on a professor who was not so much ignoring the laws of physics as sticking his thumbs in his ears and yelling “neener-neener-neener!” 

Vimes sulked along the octagonal lawn. 

Angua sneezed. “I hate the smell of magic,” she said. 

“What does it smell like?” Vimes asked, morbidly curious. In Ankh-Morpork, morbid was often the only kind of curiosity you’d got. 

“You know Corporal Nobbs?” 

“Oh, _gods,”_ said Vimes, suddenly overwhelmed with sympathy for Angua. 

“Kind of like that tobacco he gets from the hat shop on Widdershins Avenue that’s not a hat shop,” Angua said. “And lightning. And Klatchian apple pies.” 

Vimes grunted in response, still recovering from the shock of having to imagine smelling Nobby with anything but a regular nose and a good position upwind. 

They were greeted at the main door by a student who was obviously in training for something or other, and whose pointy shoes fit him badly. He had apparently been informed by the gates that they were coming, because he didn’t ask questions, just led them up a corridor and then a long series of winding staircases.

Angua was apparently holding her breath, with a pinched look on her face. Vimes should have brought Detritus, who had no sense of smell, except he wouldn’t fit in the hallways. Someone who wouldn’t be bothered by the smell. 

The student eventually led them to what felt like a very high tower. Vimes had been there before, but only once or twice— it was Archchancellor Ridcully’s office. He raised his eyebrows, trying to catch his breath.

“Yeah, sorry about the stairs,” said the student, misinterpreting the eyebrows. “Archancellor Ridcully thinks we should all be getting more exercise.” He shrugged and ambled off, in the plodding defeated way of a man who has to climb several sets of stairs each way to get to his boss’ office. 

He left them there. 

“Why are we getting sent straight to the Archchancellor?” asked Angua, who was a little quicker on the uptake, Eyebrow-wise. “By all rights, we should be talking to the assistant of an assistant right now.”  
  
“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” Vimes said, and knocked on the huge, forbidding doors of the office. 

“Come in, come in!” shouted an irritated voice from the depths, and Angua and Vimes worked together to push the doors open. 

They entered to find Archchancellor Ridcully sans wizard robes but plus a tracksuit and his wizard hat, which stood to an impressive point considering the man was doing pushups. Vimes, who had unfortunately met the man before, was not surprised. 

Angua had presumably heard rumors, or Vimes’ complaints each and every time he came back to the Watch House after having to deal with the man at some event or another. Vimes was sure he couldn’t say which one it was. She didn’t look surprised either way. 

The two members of the Watch looked down at him as Ridcully strained down, then up again. “…and, _one-hundred,”_ he said, then stood up. “I was wondering when you would show up.” 

“You were welcome to come down to the Yard if you had any complaints,” said Vimes innocently. He didn’t appreciate the implication that the Watch was remiss in their duties— and if Ridcully had thought he could help, he should have just come in. 

“I appreciate the invitation,” said Ridcully, glaring. 

“Thanks for taking the time to speak to us,” Angua said. She had clearly been spending too much time with Carrot of late. “I suppose you know why we’re here.”  
  
Ridcully looked smug. “Of course I do. I’m a wizard.” 

“How nice for you,” Vimes said, and took a seat in front of Ridcully’s desk without asking for permission. Angua followed, then, after a discomfited pause, Ridcully came up from behind him and sat in his chair. There were all sorts of dangerous-looking things scattered over the desk: glowing green things, things that spun without anything spinning them, and sports magazines. 

“You’re here about the hourglasses,” Ridcully said, seizing on the opportunity to make himself look impressive again. 

“Have you been getting them here at the University?” Angua asked. 

Ridcully shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t want to admit there was something at his school going on that he didn’t know about— besides, of course, the sanctioned mysteries in the Creative Uncertainty department, and whatever was going on in the Library. “Here and there,” he admitted. “We wizards can sometimes be distracted by our rigorous academic studies; too busy, you see, to worry about things like timers.” 

The kind of silence passed that indicated that three out of the three conversants knew what had just been said was utter nonsense, but wouldn’t mention it. 

“So do you know what they are?” Vimes asked, before his mouth could run off without him and mention it anyway.

The Archchancellor frowned. “Not as such,” he said. “We’re looking into it. The most I can tell you is that it’s not a result of any experiments going on here. I’ve checked in with each department myself. Some of the fellows are actually wondering how to duplicate it.” He was lost for a moment to the glaze of an academic wondering how he could show up another, smarter man, but shook it off quickly. 

“But it is magic?” Vimes said. 

“Er, probably,” hedged the Archchancellor. He saw the expressions on Vimes and Angua’s faces. “You see, that is, they _must_ be, because of certain properties they possess.” 

“Like miraculously showing up in people’s pockets and underthings and socks,” Angua suggested. 

“Or being completely indestructible,” Vimes said. 

“Yes, there is that,” said Ridcully. “But you see, we are very advanced here at the University, with capabilities beyond your measure. And we have ways of measuring magic.” He paused. “Well, not _measuring,_ the last chaps who tried that ended up with their brains leaking out their ears. But we can detect it, you understand.” 

“And you’re not detecting it from the hourglasses?” asked Angua. 

“Have you ever tried to look for a black cat in a black room?” 

“No,” said Vimes. 

“Well, it’s like that,” Ridcully said. “Only it’s a room full of black cats, and you’re trying to hear past static and someone keeps thumping you ‘round the head.”

They stared uncomprehendingly. 

“Whatever it is, this is no magic we’ve ever seen on the Disc,” Ridcully said. “And that worries us, just a bit.” 

So it was still up to the Watch to solve this, not that Vimes had actually expected the wizards to be helpful. He stood up. “Come down to the Watch House if you uncover anything,” he said. 

He and Angua gave brief, brusque nods, and left unceremoniously. 

That headache of his was returning with full force.


	2. 2

**GLITZ AND GLAMOUR • THINGS START TO LOOK OMINOUS • LATE NIGHTS • A NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE • MONEY NOT TO SPEND**

Hourglasses continued to stack up over the next two days. It seemed everyone in the city was going to be hit, whether they liked it or not, and the majority opinion was that they did not. A few of the most paranoid had locked themselves away for the duration, every crack and nook covered. Incidentally, the Watch had been getting a lot of complaints from neighbors when the smell of apartments who hadn’t stepped out to use the privy got to be too much. 

There had been a lot of other complaints too, and minor incidents. People were uneasy. Carrot had gone out to walk the streets even more than usual; just seeing him out and about calmed tempers somewhat. He was a Reassuring Presence. 

There wasn’t much for the Watch to do in the meanwhile but keep the peace— every lead had gone cold. Otto Chreik had volunteered his iconograph to try to get a picture of the culprit, but it was impossible to predict who would be next. Efforts had led to several pictures of bored, hourglass-less volunteers. The most exciting iconograph they got was of someone picking their nose. 

Almost half the Watch had their hourglasses now, including Dorfl the golem. 

Vimes had remained hourglass-free so far, which he liked to think was due to his constant vigilance. [4]

At about noon on the third day of the hourglasses, Detritus stuck his head in the doorframe, brow uncharacteristically wrinkled. “Missus Ramkin is here to see you,” he said. “She look not happy.” 

“Angry?” Vimes asked, shooting to his feet on instinct and patting down his armor. He huffed a breath onto his helmet and buffed it into a shine, then jammed it on his head. “I haven’t done anything.” He said this with less conviction than he might have liked. 

“No sir,” Detritus said, leaning in close and lowering his voice to a troll version of a whisper. Vimes was alarmed to realize Detritus looked slightly panicked. “I think der lady is  _ upset.”  _

Vimes stared at him. 

Then he burst from the office, badly startling a woman who had been waiting in the hallway. Detritus was only a moment behind. His presence served to clear out the rest of the stragglers, some who were still stubbornly trying to complain about their hourglasses. 

Vimes barrelled down the stairs, taking them two or even three at a time. 

He skidded into the main office and almost directly into Sybil. Then he yanked her aside, because Detritus was still following him and there was no stopping a troll once he got up the momentum. 

Vimes held Sybil and the two of them watched as Detritus rebounded off the wall with a loud, extended clang as his specially-made troll armor hit the wall then the floor. 

The dust settled. 

Vimes looked at Sybil. There were other members of the Watch, all pointedly not watching. Each and every one of them had the same expression on their face— a person who became a Watchman was not a person who knew what to do with a crying woman. And she was crying. Not a lot, but a little, tears gathering at the edge of her eyes. 

“Oh, Sam,” Sybil said, and hugged him. Vimes made panicked eyes at his Watch. Some of them helped Detritus to his feet, and most of them eased their way out of the room. Traitors, the lot of them. 

“What happened?” Vimes asked. “Is Young Sam all right? Are you?” 

“Oh, yes, we’re fine,” Sybil said, pulling back and wiping her face with a giant handkerchief. Detritus must have given it to her before he went upstairs to get Vimes. It was the size of a tea towel. “It’s just so terrible— it was all a shock, you see.” The tea towel went up and down, then revealed his wife’s face again, significantly calmer. “It’s Marjorie. I stopped by her estate for our lunch, and I found her there…”    
  
Vimes could get the picture. He also could, and did, get a bad feeling deep in the part of him that, despite his hatred of mysteries, was quite good at solving them. 

“Gods,” he said, patting her back. 

“I know this isn’t what you usually do, but do you think you could—” 

“Of course,” Vimes said, glad to have something concrete to do. He cast around the room for the remaining members of the Watch, and was glad to see Carrot was one of the ones who had stayed. “Captain Carrot?” he said. 

“Yessir,” Carrot said, and came bounding up. “There, there, Lady Vimes,” he said, taking the dishtowel-handkerchief from her and replacing it with, presumably, one of his own. He was one of the only people in Ankh-Morpork who called her Lady Vimes instead of Lady Ramkin, and also Sybil adored him. “You can stay here at the Watch while we go check it out.” 

“I’m going with you,” Sybil said, patting his cheek fondly. She was usually of the opinion that Carrot didn’t eat enough, though Vimes feared what would happen if he grew any more. 

Carrot looked at Vimes, who shrugged. 

* * *

[4] It was not. 

* * *

The Lady Marjorie Glitz had been found by Sybil, dead as a doornail at the foot of her back stairs which led into the garden. Marjorie kept two or three dragons back there, rescues from the Sunshine Sanctuary, Sybil told him. Marjorie had never married (thus the dragons) and the whole estate belonged to her. 

Carrot stood at the top of the stairs, crouched down to look at the length Marjorie must have fallen. Vimes examined the body at the foot. Though the patrolmen who had come before them had roped off the scene, a small gaggle of household staff was peeking in curiously. 

“No sign of a struggle up here, sir,” said Carrot, standing back up with something in his hand. “But I found a bit of a shoe heel stuck in a snag on the carpet.” 

“Uh-huh, her high-heel is fraying on one and missing the other,” Vimes grunted. Old shoes. Often those old ladies would get attached to fashions from years and years ago, when they had been young and beautiful. These ones were pink and quite ugly. 

Carrot descended the stairs carefully. 

The Lady Ramkin was occupied with comforting one of the maids behind the rope, so Vimes gestured Carrot over quietly. “Check for a bag, a big thing with flowers,” he said. “I want to see her hourglass.” 

Carrot looked at him curiously, but departed obediently. 

Vimes checked over the body, finding nothing out of the ordinary. She’d been too surprised to use her hands to try to catch herself, he thought, and broken her neck. When you were talking a big house like this, down the stairs was a long way to go. 

Carrot returned with Marjorie Glitz’s bag and set it down carefully beside Vimes, crouching to be on the same level. “What is it, Commander?” 

Vimes reached into the bag, holding his breath as the expected smell wafted out. He pulled out the hourglass. All the sand was on the bottom. 

_ “Oh,”  _ said Carrot. 

“The question is,” Vimes said, “Which came first? The sand running out, or the death?” 

Carrot looked faintly alarmed. 

“What is it?” Sybil said, kneeling down beside them. She cut off Vimes’ protests with a click of her teeth. “Oh, hush. I’m fine now. What’s going on?” She glanced at the empty hourglass. “Oh,” she said, with an intake of breath. “You had better not let anyone else see that.” 

“But she only tripped,” Carrot said. “This doesn’t look like foul play to me— though of course we still have to ask the Assassins.” 

“I agree,” said Vimes, because he did. He turned the hourglass upside-down. The sand didn’t move. Quietly, he tucked it into his pocket. “But that brings up its own set of questions.” 

Some of the patrolmen came over and laid out a sheet over the body. Vimes, Carrot, and Sybil watched it float gently over the unmoving face of Marjorie Glitz. 

* * *

“Have we seen the hourglasses on any other corpses around the city?” Vimes asked his higher-ranked troops, who were crowded into his office. There were plenty of murders, accidents, and murder-accidents every day in this city, even with the Watch around. Some of them were even legal. Corpses were not that hard to find. 

“Nope,” Nobby said. “Only, most of the stiffs we find around the city get robbed before we even get called in. Hourglasses, wallets, pants and all.” 

“True,” said Angua. “So we couldn’t really see if the hourglasses were empty or not.” She frowned. “You don’t think making the hourglasses run out of sand could really kill a person, do you?” 

“I don’t know,” Vimes said. “I don’t know how to do it. But if someone does, they’d be a millionaire within the day. Imagine being able to kill whoever you want, just by getting a hand on their hourglass.” 

Vimes let this soak in. Sometimes it took a while with these troops. 

“But you said the sand was already low,” Carrot pointed out. He looked uncomfortable under all that red hair and so close to Nobby, who was squashed nearest to him. “Maybe it was just her time to go?” 

“A man shouldn’t know when he’s going to die,” Colon said, shaking his head. “Not till he finds himself on the other end of a sword.” 

“Yes, if nothing else, I imagine  _ she  _ would be a little more lax about doing crime if she knew  _ her _ time was almost up,” said Cheery. 

This suggestion was met with horrified silence. An Ankh-Morpork where its citizens didn’t have to worry about consequences was not a good Ankh-Morpork. Say what you wanted about Vetinari’s prisons, but no one who had seen one wanted anywhere near the place. The gallows worked to the same effect. 

Carrot cleared his throat. Vimes was glad. It was comforting to the troops when Carrot stood up like he knew what to do, which he usually did. “Right,” he said. “No one tells  _ anyone  _ our theory about the hourglasses.” There was a murmur of acknowledgement. “We need to find out if we’re right.” 

“Nobby, Colon, you talk to Throat Dibbler,” Vimes said. “See if he’s—ahem—  _ acquired  _ any hourglasses of the recently-deceased.” 

“I suggest you take Detritus too,” Carrot interjected. “Dibbler sometimes needs a little harder persuading to cooperate with authority.” 

“Yessir!” said Detritus, trying to salute, to the horror of everyone in range. “I do good cooperating!” 

“In the meanwhile,” Vimes said. “Er, let me see everyone’s hourglasses who’s got them.” 

With more reluctance now, Detritus, Colon, and Cheery produced theirs. All were mostly full, though Colon’s was leaning a little sandward. An old Seargent was he, though not apparently about to drop dead at any moment. 

Vimes cleared his throat. “Good,” he said. “Carry on.” 

* * *

“Do stop worrying, Sam,” said the Lady Ramkin as they dressed for bed. 

“Who’s worried?” asked Vimes. “Where’s Young Sam?” 

“Tucked in, where we put him not fifteen minutes ago, hourglass-free,” soothed Sybil. “Really, there’s not much more you can do at the moment. What did your patrolmen say?” 

Vimes reluctantly abandoned his armor to the closet and followed her towards the canopy bed. “They were only able to uncover two hourglasses whose names matched our records of the dead. Both empty.” He sat on the edge of the bed and shook his slippers off irritably, then his dressing gown. “Did you know Captain Humpeding has an almost entirely full hourglass? You can hardly see the time that’s passed so far.” 

“Sally  _ is _ a vampire, dear,” said Sybil. “I imagine she’s got a long time to go.” 

Vimes grumbled as he got under the covers and punched the pillow into shape. “If she stays in the Watch, she’s going to run out of ranks eventually.” 

Sybil laughed. “Maybe she’ll become Patrician then. Can you imagine Vetinari rolling in his grave because there’s a Samuel Vimes-trained Watchman as Patrician?”

This actually served to cheer him up greatly. 

Still, though, Vimes found himself staring up into the dark in the small hours, long after Sybil had fallen asleep. The fact remained that whatever the purpose of the hourglasses, someone or something was putting them in his city. And it probably wasn’t for a good reason. 

Like Colon said, a man— or woman— shouldn’t know when they were going to die. It was against the natural order of things. They especially shouldn’t have to worry about how much sand might be left in the hypothetical life-timer of a one-year-old boy…

Maybe Vimes would just check on Young Sam for a moment. Whether he had gotten his hourglass or not, the lad probably needed peeking in on anyway. 

Mind made up, Vimes swung his legs out of bed quietly and reached for his dressing gown. 

His hand hit something hard and clinky in the pocket. 

Gritting his teeth, Vimes eschewed the slippers, waiting comfortably in all their cotton glory, and put on his old, worn boots instead, then went to the closet for his armor. 

* * *

The station was much quieter for the night watch, even at the big one in Pseudopolis Yard. Vimes was left alone as he stomped up the stairs to his office, wearing pajamas with his boots and breastplate and helmet. 

He stormed in and sat behind his desk, lighting a cigar and chewing angrily. He put the object from his dressing-gown, now transferred to his trouser pocket, on the desk. 

All things said, it was a handsome hourglass. 

The casing was made of the same sort of iron as Vimes’ original, favorite armor, with all the wear and tear that came with it. His name was scrolled into the top, and the glass had more than a few dings itself, which probably said something about Vimes’ life. But the glass was shaped very oddly. 

Vimes was proud to see the sand was at a pretty good level— not Sally von Humpeding levels, but not about to fall down the stairs either. A good few years of Watchman life left, so long as he stayed away from frilly pink high heels. 

That raised an interesting question. If you died when the sand ran out,  _ did that mean you were immortal until then?  _ The prospect of Ankh-Morporkians who didn’t fear death was even more disturbing than the other alternatives. 

Something shifted in the corner of his eye. 

Of course, there was always the possibility they were wrong and that Vimes was going to die any minute. 

Vimes had got his crossbow out and loaded by the time the shadows coalesced into something more solid. The cigar fell out of his mouth. 

Hᴇʟʟᴏ, said the figure in the corner. As ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ sᴇᴇ, ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴs ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ʜᴇʀᴇ— 

Vimes shot. He knew precisely who and what it was the moment he saw him, deep in that animal hindbrain in which every man feared it and knew it all at once. Death politely didn’t move out of the way, and the bolt went through his form and hit the wall behind.

“You could at least pretend it hurt you,” Vimes said, slumping dejectedly in his chair. Is this what being dead felt like? It didn’t feel like it. 

Oᴜᴄʜ, said Death, courteously. 

“Yeah, that didn’t make me feel better,” Vimes said. “I have more crossbow bolts, and I’m not afraid to use them.” 

Tʜᴇsᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ʙʀᴀᴠᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅs ғᴏʀ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʙʟᴜᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅᴘʀɪɴᴛ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴇ sɪᴅᴇ ᴏғ ʜɪs ʙʀᴇᴀsᴛᴘʟᴀᴛᴇ.

“I’m not ready to go.” On a whim, Vimes picked up his hourglass from the desk. “See? I’ve still got more time.” 

I ᴀᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ ғᴏʀ— 

Someone, or two someones, burst through the door, yelling. 

“Ayiiii!!!” said Carrot, while Angua was mostly just growling. 

Vimes, already having had the shock scared out of him by coming face-to-non-face with Death, just stared. Both Captains Angua and Carrot were half-dressed. Angua was wearing her breastplate and helmet, and, apparently, Carrot’s pants. Carrot had gone for breastplate but no shirt, but at least he was wearing underwear, and at least it was his own. 

Both were barefoot, but Carrot had his shiny sword and Angua had found a club somewhere. 

Nᴏ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀʟᴀʀᴍᴇᴅ, said Death. Iᴛ ɪs ᴏɴʟʏ ᴍᴇ.

Carrot and Angua looked at each other. 

“Ayiii!!!” said Carrot. 

“ _ Growl,”  _ said Angua, and the two of them charged. 

Their weapons went  _ boiii-ng  _ off the wall, and Vimes winced. Carrot went nose-first into hard stone, but Angua managed to catch herself only to tumble to the floor in a sprawl of limbs and Carrot’s trousers. 

Vimes craned his neck to look at them. “Well done, troops,” he said. 

“We won’t let you take the Commander!” Carrot said, rubbing his nose with one hand and holding out the sword with the other. 

“We heard the crossbow bolt,” Angua said, standing. “Are you okay, Vimes?” 

“I’m fine, Angua,” Vimes said, vaguely perplexed to realize it was true. He had heard things about walking into the light, and this didn’t feel like that. “I don’t think he’s here for me. Right?” 

Cᴏʀʀᴇᴄᴛ, said Death. I ᴀᴍ, ɪɴ ᴀ sᴇɴsᴇ, ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ʜᴇʀᴇ. Hᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, I ᴀᴍ ʜᴇʀᴇ ɴᴏᴡ sᴘᴇᴄɪғɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴛᴏ ᴀsᴋ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀssɪsᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ.    


Angua and Carrot lowered their weapons, looking faintly embarrassed. 

“This is about the hourglasses?” Carrot said. 

Yᴇs, Death said. Iᴛ ɪs ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ǫᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍ. 

“We’ve noticed,” Vimes said, standing up and trying to relieve his jelly-legs from the close brush with Death. He was still holding the hourglass. He put down the crossbow, but not the timer. 

“You got yours,” Carrot observed. “What’s that glass thing on the side?” 

Vimes’ hourglass was shaped like a regular one, but there was a length of glass piping that seemed to split off from one side, then match back with the other. There was no sand in that part at the moment. 

Hᴍᴍ, said Death. Aʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, ʙʏ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟʟᴇʀ?

“Ha, ha,” said Vimes. “Is that illegal?” 

“Why does it say  _ Commander _ Samuel Vimes?” asked Angua quickly. “Not Sir or Duke? As a matter of fact, I don’t think the rest of the Watch have their rank titles.” 

“It’s your True Name,” said Carrot. “Right?” 

Yᴇs, said Death, watching him carefully with deep blue eyes. Tʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴀɴ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛɪɴɢ sᴡᴏʀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ. 

“Thanks,” Carrot beamed, then sheathed it as an afterthought. “What’s this you say about needing our help?” 

Death looked a little embarrassed, though how Vimes could tell he couldn’t have said. 

Yᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʜᴏᴜʀɢʟᴀssᴇs. Tʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ʟɪғᴇ-ᴛɪᴍᴇʀs. Tʜᴇʏ ᴍᴇᴀsᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴘᴀɴ ᴏғ ᴀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ's ʟɪғᴇ. 

“We figured,” said Angua. “You want us to find out who sent them out? We’ve been looking into it already.” 

Death stared at them. I ғɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴏᴅᴅ, he said. Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴇsᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ɪɴ Aɴᴋʜ-Mᴏʀᴘᴏʀᴋ.

“Why, thank you,” said Vimes, oddly touched with civic pride as only a citizen of Ankh-Morpork could be. “How did your life-timers get out?” He gave Death a hard, stern look. “You didn’t release them, did you?” 

Nᴏ, said Death. Tʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʙᴀᴅ ɪᴅᴇᴀ.

“Yeah, we’ve gotten that sense,” said Vimes. 

Tʜɪs ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ɪғ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴇʟɪʙᴇʀᴀᴛᴇʟʏ sᴜᴍᴍᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪғᴇ-ᴛɪᴍᴇʀs ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪs ᴘʟᴀɴᴇ, Death said. Iɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴄᴀsᴇ, ᴡᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ғɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴠᴇʀsᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇғғᴇᴄᴛs ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇʀs ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ʀᴇᴀʟᴍ.

“I’m guessing the whole city is going to get one at some point,” said Vimes. 

Iɴᴅᴇᴇᴅ, said Death. Bᴜᴛ I ғᴇᴀʀ ɪғ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴs, ɪᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ sᴘʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏᴜᴛsɪᴅᴇ Aɴᴋʜ-Mᴏʀᴘᴏʀᴋ. Aɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ I ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʙᴀᴄᴋ. 

“What happens if they stay in the world of the living?” asked Carrot. 

Pʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴɪɴɢ, said Death. Oɴʟʏ ᴡᴏʀsᴇ. 

“Oh,” said Angua faintly. “Good.” 

“Do you have somewhere for us to start?” asked Carrot politely. “Only, we’ve been looking ‘round the whole city and we haven’t found anything. Who do you think would do this?” 

Oɴʟʏ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴇxɪsᴛᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ, Death said. Aɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴇ, ᴍʏ ʀᴀᴠᴇɴ, ᴏʀ ᴍʏ ɢʀᴀɴᴅᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ.

“So that leaves…?” Angua asked. 

I ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ, Death said. Dᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ʟᴇᴀʀɴ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs? Iᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ʙᴇ ғᴏʀʙɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴛᴀʟs ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ғᴇᴀʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ.

A look of distaste crossed each of the Watchmen’s faces. “The Library,” they said, together. 

Aʜ, ʏᴇs, Death said. I ᴘɪᴄᴋ ᴜᴘ ᴍᴀɴʏ sᴏᴜʟs ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ.

Vimes glanced out the window, where the moon was still high. “That will have to wait until morning,” he said. “You just can’t get bananas this time of night.” 

Iᴛ ɪs ǫᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴇᴍʙᴀʀʀᴀssɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀsᴋ ғᴏʀ ʜᴇʟᴘ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs, said Death, shuffling his probably-feet. I ᴀᴍ ᴀғʀᴀɪᴅ I ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ sᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ɢʀᴀsᴘ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴀs I ᴅᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ. Tʜɪs ɪs ᴡʜʏ I ᴀsᴋ ʏᴏᴜ.

“Er,” said Carrot. “Is there a way to contact you? That is, if you want to find the culprit with us.” One did not just  _ assume  _ Death wanted to do anything.

I ᴅᴏ, said Death. Bᴜᴛ ɪғ ɪᴛ's ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ, I ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ ɪs ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴇɴᴅ ᴜᴘ ɪɴ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ  _ ʏᴏᴜʀ _ ᴊᴀɪʟs.

The living occupants of the room gulped, because this seemed just the moment. 

“Probably we could make an exception this once,” said Vimes hurriedly, and Angua and Carrot hastened to agree. 

Tʜᴇɴ I ɢɪᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴ, said Death, producing three coins from within the impossible depths of his robes. Both sides were a skull, and when Vimes flipped it absently in his hand, it looked like it was grinning and also gave him a headache. Sɪᴍᴘʟʏ ᴘᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪs ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇʀs ᴀɴᴅ I ᴡɪʟʟ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴏ ɪs ᴄᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ.

“But Carrot and Angua don’t even have theirs yet,” said Vimes. 

Aʜᴇᴍ, said Death. 

Blushing, Carrot patted down his clothes, then reached into his underwear and emerged with an hourglass. He glanced at it, then, face flaming redder, passed it to Angua. Angua did a similar maneuver with the life-timer she found in Carrot’s pants pocket. Ardently, neither looked at Vimes. 

Angua’s was a fat hourglass trimmed in red wood, with three scratch marks across the glass like claw marks. Her name was embossed on the top in gold, with a sort of flourish to the letters that indicated the writer was Uberwaldian. 

Vimes glanced at Carrot’s. It was very fine work— definitely the most beautiful life-timer Vimes had seen so far. It was scrolled in metal like Carrot’s sword, with a bright, unearthly shine to it. 

Carrot gave it a long, quiet look, then put it away once more. 

“Thanks for the help, I suppose,” Vimes said. 

I ʜᴏᴘᴇ ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇs ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ sᴀɪᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴛʜɪs ǫᴜɪᴇᴛ.

“As the grave,” Vimes promised. 

“The soul of discretion,” Angua said. 

“I shouldn’t like panic in the streets,” said Carrot, earnest-faced. “You can count on us.” 

Death paused, waiting. Oʜ, he said. I ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴀ ᴘᴜɴ ᴛᴏᴏ.

“No thank you,” said Carrot. 

Rɪɢʜᴛ, Death said, and coughed awkwardly. It was clearly not the cough of a being that  _ needed  _ to cough. Possibly he had never tried it before, because he seemed embarrassed again after it was finally over. Gᴏᴏᴅʙʏᴇ.   
  
And then he was gone, like he’d never been there at all. 

“Small and big gods, ninehells,” Vimes breathed. “That guy scared the knurd out of me. What were you two thinking, going after Death with a sword and a club?” 

“Actually, it’s a chair leg,” said Angua sheepishly. 

“Didn’t you go after him first, sir?” asked Carrot. 

“Yes, but I’m an idiot,” said Vimes. He picked up his cigar, which was still smoldering on his desk where he had dropped it. “You’re supposed to be smarter than me. Please go get dressed— in your own clothes, if you will. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 


	3. 3

**MONKEYING AROUND • RECREATIONAL READING • RECREATIONAL DRUGS • WHY DO THEY ALWAYS RUN? • GAME THEORY • MURDER**

The next day dawned bright and shiny and far too early in the morning if you asked Vimes. 

Sybil awoke him rather huffily, holding his muddy boots and the remains of a cigar stub. “Did you take up sleepwalking?” she asked. 

Vimes winced. “Only recreationally, my love.” 

She dropped the boots onto his chest. 

“That’s fair!” he called out after her retreating back. 

Once dressed, he double-checked the contents of his pockets. Life-timer, still steadily ticking sand, check. Ominous Death coin, check. There was a lump in the pockets of his leather undershirt— he pulled it out and smiled. Sybil had packed him a lunch. It didn’t look like she had made it, so it was probably even edible. 

When Vimes greeted Young Sam, who was sat on the floor, working studiously on his painting while breakfast was prepared, Sam greeted him back with a slap of yellow paint just below the first one. 

“Working with your mother already, eh, lad?” Vimes asked. 

“Do-boo!” Young Sam said in victory. 

* * *

Vimes met Carrot and Angua, who were both thankfully fully clothed, in front of the University. There was a pungent smell of the color purple in the air, which meant that today was probably bring-your-own-dish day at the University lunch. 

“Anything new from the Watch House?” Vimes asked Carrot by way of greeting. 

He shook his head. “Couple more complaints when I woke up this morning, though people seem to be getting used to the timers. Some more of the Watch have them.” 

Vimes grunted. “We better get this resolved quickly.” 

“I’ll call… er, Death,” Angua said, pulling out her token and placing it on top of her life-timer. 

“Do you think we have to say anything to summo—  _ argh!”  _ Carrot jumped back as Death was suddenly standing in front of them. “Ah, hello.” 

Gᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ, said Death. 

Vimes watched the reactions of the people passing around them, or, rather, the non-reactions. “Are we the only ones who can see you?” 

Aʜ, ʏᴇs, said Death. Aғᴛᴇʀ ʟᴀsᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ, I ғɪɢᴜʀᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ʙᴇsᴛ.

At the front door, the young student who had let them in before was replaced by another bored-looking pupil, this one slightly rounder and with only marginally better-fitting shoes. “We’d like to talk to the Librarian,” Carrot informed him, politely. 

It made sense that they were led to Ridcully’s office the first time, but to the Library, which was technically public, was a little more unusual. This was a courtesy to the Watch, or maybe a warning— no one else got an escort through campus. 

The boy led them through the campus to the Library, and paused outside the doors. “You’ve got it from here, right?” he asked nervously. He glanced the direction of the invisible Death, as if sensing something there, but visibly shook it off. 

“I’ve got a banana,” Vimes reassured him. 

“Oh, good,” said the boy. He scurried off, in pursuit of higher education, or, perhaps, higher ground. 

Aғᴛᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ, said Death. 

The Watchmen went. “Gives me a shiver up my spine,” Angua whispered to Vimes as Death waited behind and then swept into the room. Vimes nodded. 

“Ook?” enquired a voice from the depths of the Library. 

“We come with gifts,” Vimes said, and held out the banana. 

Eyes emerged from the shadows, significantly higher than a human’s head should be. But then the Librarian came into the light, and Vimes saw he was just climbing the shelves, gripping with one hand and both feet. He stared for a moment at the banana. 

Vimes waggled it enticingly, trying not to think of 150 pounds or so of orang-utan and how many teeth that might entail. 

“Oook,” said the Librarian, approvingly, and hopped down off the shelves to take the fruit. 

He ate it, staring at each of them in turn; including, Vimes saw, Death. 

Carrot cleared his throat. “We’re looking for information on Death.” 

The Librarian’s huge furred eyes shifted over to Death. “Eeek,” he said. 

Yᴇs, said Death. Bᴜᴛ I ᴀᴍ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴀɴ ᴇxᴄᴇᴘᴛɪᴏɴ. Aғᴛᴇʀ ᴀʟʟ, I ʜᴏᴘᴇ I sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.

“Ook,” said the Librarian, and shrugged. He knuckled down the hall of the Library, beckoning them to follow. There were other wizards scattered around the Library, watching in pointy-hatted curiosity, but no one tried to approach.

“What does that mean, ‘you’d be surprised’?” Carrot asked, leaning in close to Death. 

Death didn’t answer, gliding along behind the Librarian. 

Vimes noticed that Death didn’t exactly walk, but he didn’t exactly float, either. It was more that he was somewhere and then he was somewhere else. Whether or not that somewhere else was where he would have got by walking was inconsequential. It made his head hurt to think about. 

The Librarian led them through the stacks of books. They stuck close together, wary of what dangers might lurk around the corners or inside the musty tomes. One of the books growled at Vimes as he walked by. 

Vimes couldn’t say he’d been to this section of the Library before, but then again, he made it a point to avoid the Library. At least not without some emergency rations, a long rope, and someone who would come looking after a while. 

It was a little darker in the corner where the Librarian finally came to a stop. The bookshelves had started slanting inward a little while ago, rather than sitting in neat rows on the ground, and now they culminated into a sort of artificial alcove with a pointed end. The section was clearly blocked off by a sign on a stanchion that said  _ KEEP OUT!!!!!! _

They walked around the sign. 

Angua sniffed the air, seemingly more out of habit than anything. She shook off Vimes’ enquiring look. “Just magic, sir,” she said. “But I think I’m getting better at blocking it out…” She resumed sniffing. 

Vimes looked at the bookshelves, careful not to touch. “And is there anything about hourglasses in here?” he asked. “Life-timers?” 

The Librarian looked intrigued. He clambered over a few shelves and swung to a section with a glass door and an extra lock on it. He produced a key from— somewhere— and opened the door. 

“Ook,” he said, gesturing. 

Death stepped forward to peer into the cabinet. Vimes stepped around Carrot, who was determinedly sounding out the titles on another shelf, and looked with Death. Some of the titles were interesting, though only in the way that a spider as big as your hand would be in the moments before you squashed it and ran away screaming. 

_ How to Avoid Death  _ looked promising, but someone had scratched out the title and hurriedly scrawled in something that looked like blood an addendum:  **_this does not work_ ** _.  _ Similarly,  _ Death and Ghosts  _ seemed intriguing, but when Vimes picked it up with caution it seemed to be a volume detailing how the wizards willed their souls to the University instead of the wossname of the great unknown. 

Eʀ, said Death, and swiveled his head around to look at the Librarian. He was holding a book titled  _ How To Summon Death (For Purposef of Love and Thingf Of Similar Natre).  _

“Eek,” the Librarian said hurriedly, and took the book and tossed it over his shoulder, where it immediately burst into flame. Vimes wondered if it was the Librarian, Death, or the Library’s doing. Probably it was better not to know. 

“Don’t you have anything, I don’t know, more real?” Angua asked. “Something with real rituals in it.” 

Death, apparently over his embarrassment, was still looking with interest at the display case. Hᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴅɪᴍᴇɴsɪᴏɴs ᴅᴏᴇs ᴛʜɪs sʜᴇʟғ ʜᴀᴠᴇ?

“Ook.” 

Hᴍᴍ, Death said. I ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ sᴀɪᴅ sɪx.

“Wizards,” muttered Vimes. Angua nodded. Carrot was still engrossed in reading the book titles, lips moving as he puzzled out ‘Compendium’. That would keep him occupied for a while. 

Then Death reached into the shelf— no, behind the shelf— no, in the shelf— and pulled out another book. This one not only dripped malice but also actual, literal shadows. They pooled on the floor around Death’s feet, and Vimes edged away slightly before they could swallow his boots. The book was called: 

  
  


**_M̷̛̹̍͊͊̒a̴̧͓̹̰̘̭̋̑͊̎̐͗͐̕s̷̫̮͕̄̑̆͑̌͘͠t̴͎͇͇̓͑̅̊̊̈́͘͜͝ḝ̷̝̝̦̫͉̉͐͜r̵̻̗̐̈́̂͗̎̏͋͆ḯ̸̡͇̜̥̙̻̻̙̏̓͜n̵̹̻͒͑͘̕g̸͕̠͛͂̈́̾̓̊͆̕ͅ ̷͈̍̈̽̈̄̋͑L̷̡̛̹̲͈̣̞̯̋͊͘i̸̱̼̜̗̋͛̋̈͘̚͠ḟ̷͖̺̖̥̥̐͠ę̷͎͈̻͇̱̮̳͆͆̔̑͝ ̸̥̪̹̈́̀̕ă̷̗̪ņ̴̗̹͔̜̙͑ͅd̴̻̩̉̑̓̋ ̸̢̛̙̜͇̞̮̦̆̓ͅD̵̡̛̼͓͚̼̜͇̈̾e̷̹̙͋ą̷̭͉̬̂̍̿̑̀t̸̡͈͉͍͍̮̆́̌̃̀h̸̟͂̉̊͋̌̄̐͘͝_ **

  
  


“I’d say that’s it,” said Carrot, cheerfully. 

* * *

There was a card on the inside saying who had checked out the book last. The Librarian disappeared with an  _ ook  _ that promised bloody retribution, should the Watch give him a crack at the wizard who had bothered his book. 

There, written on the checkout card, in precise, if slightly cramped handwriting:  _ Wend Mulchgardner. _

One of the— human— wizards, chosen for his proximity and ability to speak in complete sentences, when asked, shrugged. “Mulch is one of our newer students,” he said. New, to the University, could mean many things, particularly considering the wizard they were speaking to looked to be upwards of a hundred years old. “Works as a secretary, mostly. Makes a good cuppa tea,” said the wizard. 

When released, the wizard, who was holding a large stack of books almost up to his hat, scurried off in the same direction he had been going. 

They’d been compelled by way of Librarian stare to leave the book behind once more, but Vimes had given it a cursory look. There had been more than enough information of the forbidden type— Vimes guessed summoning the life-timers would be pretty easy once you’d figured out how to make the pages stop bleeding. 

“It’s odd, though, isn’t it?” asked Carrot, as they searched out the student dormitories. “Why not summon Death hisself— sorry, sir— instead of just the hourglasses?” 

Pᴇʀʜᴀᴘs ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʟɪғᴇ-ᴛɪᴍᴇʀs ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ғɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ, suggested Death. Oʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀsᴛ ᴄᴀʀʀʏ sᴄʏᴛʜᴇs. 

“Good point,” Vimes said. 

The student housing of the Unseen University was set diagonally from the Tower of Art, and close enough to the Great Hall that hungry students could wander down at any time of the day or night. A couple were doing just that as they walked by, some looking hung-over despite the way the sun still hung high in the sky and the fact that classes were presumably still in session. [5]

Like all colleges, the student dorms were obviously made in vastly different eras and for vastly different purposes, some of which were probably known only to the architects (if one was being generous). Through the hodge-podge of shapes, it was Death who finally spotted the three-floor building which served as Wend Mulchgardner’s temporary housing.

It was called Apparition Cottage, and it was very ugly. 

“Right,” said Vimes. “Are we taking bets?” 

“Patrol duty at the Bank,” said Angua immediately. “I hate that gig.” 

“Sure, that’s the stakes,” said Vimes. “Front or back?” 

“Front, sir,” said Carrot. “He used his real name. Can’t imagine he’s a big thinker.”    


“I’ll go for back,” Angua said. “ _ Everyone  _ does back. It’s a classic.” 

“I’m with Angua, sorry Carrot,” said Vimes. “Death?” 

I ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀᴍᴇ.

“No bet, then. You’ll see.” Vimes waved Carrot and Angua off, and they split in opposite directions. “Guess you probably wouldn’t fit in the Watch armor anyway. Come on.” 

Death followed him inside without complaining. 

Vimes and Death jogged up the stairs to the second floor. It smelled like magic and tobacco, if cut with something else that a Watchman probably shouldn’t know about. 

Vimes knocked on the first door he saw. It opened after a moment, and a wizard poked his head out, sans hat. He was bleary-eyed, but straightened up in panic when he saw Vimes’ shiny armor and badge. “Uh! Sir!” 

Vimes fought back a smile. That just wouldn’t do for a man’s reputation, to be seen smiling. 

“At ease,” he said. “Do you know someone called Mulch?” 

“Oh, yes! Sir! Just down in Room 9, sir!” 

“Thanks,” Vimes said. Down the hall— Vimes would guess in the direction of Room 9— a door slammed. 

He was vaguely surprised when he turned and saw  _ two  _ wizards running, but not overly concerned. The students clearly knew the building better than he, splitting off in two directions at the end of the hall, which apparently branched off back to the stairs. 

The one Vimes had been talking to inched his door shut. 

Aʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ᴀғᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇᴍ?

“No need to run,” said Vimes. “Though now no one wins the bet.” 

* * *

[5] This is a constant state of being for any college student in the multiverse. Legend says that a young man from Roundworld slipped his way through L-Space in the Library and attended a few classes. Then he went back home and fell asleep, never the wiser. 

* * *

Carrot had collared the one at the front, and the poor kid looked terrified in the face of Carrot’s benevolent menace. 

“Got ‘im, sir,” Carrot said proudly. “Ran right into me, poor man.” 

“About that—” Vimes said, just as Angua swung around the corner with the other student, who looked just as petrified in the hands of someone who was less nice to her captive than Carrot was. 

“Got ‘im!” Angua said. “Both of you have to take my Bank watches— aw, damn.”    
  
“Two wizards,” Vimes said as Angua brought the other one level with his friend. He leaned in close. The dark-haired one looked like he was about to burst into tears. Still got it, Sam. “Hi, kids,” he said. “You’ll have a lot of fun meeting a friend of mine. But first, we need some answers.” 

Rather than make the trek back to the Watch House, they brought the wizards back up to their apparently shared room.

Hᴏᴡ ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʀᴜɴ? asked Death. 

“They  _ always  _ run,” said Vimes, Carrot, and Angua at the same time, successfully scaring the snot out of both boys. Like everyone else they’d encountered, neither seemed able to see Death, but every so often they would glance roundabouts his direction with a sense of unspecific malaise. 

“Hey, I recognize you,” said Vimes, shouldering open the door. He squinted at the fair-haired one. “You let us in the gates a few days ago.” 

“Yessir,” he mumbled. “I’m Wend— er, Mulch, the guys call me.” He looked like he was trying desperately to grow into a real wizard. A little scruff of a blond beard was growing on his chin, and— Vimes squinted— he had put some kind of makeup in his eyebrows to make them thicker and more crazy-shaped. “This is Chelle.” 

“Oh, good, then you’re who we’re looking for,” Angua said. “What did you want with  **_M̷̛̹̍͊͊̒a̴̧͓̹̰̘̭̋̑͊̎̐͗͐̕s̷̫̮͕̄̑̆͑̌͘͠t̴͎͇͇̓͑̅̊̊̈́͘͜͝ḝ̷̝̝̦̫͉̉͐͜r̵̻̗̐̈́̂͗̎̏͋͆ḯ̸̡͇̜̥̙̻̻̙̏̓͜n̵̹̻͒͑͘̕g̸͕̠͛͂̈́̾̓̊͆̕ͅ ̷͈̍̈̽̈̄̋͑L̷̡̛̹̲͈̣̞̯̋͊͘i̸̱̼̜̗̋͛̋̈͘̚͠ḟ̷͖̺̖̥̥̐͠ę̷͎͈̻͇̱̮̳͆͆̔̑͝ ̸̥̪̹̈́̀̕ă̷̗̪ņ̴̗̹͔̜̙͑ͅd̴̻̩̉̑̓̋ ̸̢̛̙̜͇̞̮̦̆̓ͅD̵̡̛̼͓͚̼̜͇̈̾e̷̹̙͋ą̷̭͉̬̂̍̿̑̀t̸̡͈͉͍͍̮̆́̌̃̀h̸̟͂̉̊͋̌̄̐͘͝_ ** _?”  _

A little smoke poured out of her mouth and she coughed a ladylike cough before putting her hands on her hips and lifting her lips and snarling a little. “Well?” 

Mulch screwed up his courage, apparently to the sticking point. “What, is it illegal to check out a book now? I go to school here.” 

Vimes watched him impassively, and both boys cowered. He turned to Angua, Carrot, and Death. “Well, they don’t know anything,” he said, taking out a cigar and lighting it. “Certainly we should give up now.” 

He jerked his head, and they adjourned to the other side of the room. It was a two-bedroom apartment-type room, and they were standing in what appeared to be the living room, kitchen, and repository for spellbooks and dirty socks. 

“Something feels off about those two,” said Carrot, frowning in thought. “I don’t know if they have what it takes to steal from Death. They certainly don’t seem paranoid enough for that, if anything else.” 

I ᴀɢʀᴇᴇ, said Death. Bᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ɪɴᴠᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ. Tʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴜʀᴀ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴏᴏᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ.

“Maybe we try splitting them up,” said Angua. “The little one— Chelle— hasn’t said much. I’d bet he’s involved. I smell fear on them both.”    
  
Tɪᴍᴇ ɪs ʀᴜɴɴɪɴɢ sʜᴏʀᴛ, Death said. Pᴀʀᴅᴏɴ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇᴄᴇssᴀʀʏ ᴘᴜɴ. Bᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇʀs ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ sᴛᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ғᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ. 

“We’ll have to crack these two,” said Vimes, puffing on his cigar. 

“Sir,” Carrot said, with a stern look on his face. “What would the Lady Sybil say?” 

Vimes scowled and put it out. “I am your superior officer, Carrot.” 

“Yessir.” Carrot was mostly incapable of doing anything with insincerity, but possibly that made it worse. 

“For that, you two get the annoying one. I’ll take the little guy.” 

* * *

Vimes sat in a chair across from Chelle, staring. They were in the living room, and Angua and Carrot had taken Mulch to one of the bedrooms for his little chat. 

Chelle shifted in his seat. 

Vimes kept staring. 

Old Stoneface, they called him, when they thought his ears were turned away. Vimes didn’t particularly mind the nickname, not when it was those skills precisely that scared the living hell out of young apprentice wizards. 

Death stood at Vimes’ shoulder. 

Aʀᴇ ᴡᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜɪs sᴏᴏɴ?

Vimes kept staring. 

And staring. 

“What?” Chelle burst out. “What do you want? We don’t even know anything!” 

“Let’s play a game,” said Vimes. 

The dark-haired wizard looked apprehensive. “What kind of game?” 

“‘S called Prisn’r’s Dilemma.” 

“And… what’s the dilemma?” 

“See, there’s two of you,” said Vimes, leaning forward. 

The kid leaned forward too, subconsciously. “A-and?” 

“And the dilemma is, do you want to go to the gallows with your teeth kicked in, or without?” 

I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴀᴛ's ʜᴏᴡ ɪᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴋs, said Death. As I ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ɪɴᴠᴏʟᴠᴇs ᴀ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴅᴇᴀʟ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴘsʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ɢᴀᴍᴇs ᴀɴᴅ sᴜᴄʜ. Pᴏssɪʙʟʏ ᴀ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏᴇs ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀʟʟᴏᴡs.

“Gallows?!?” squeaked the boy. “Listen, it’s not like that! It’s not our fault! We only got the book and did the ritual.” 

“That sounds like the long and short of it to me,” said Vimes, a little confused though he knew better than to admit that. 

“No! See, we were hired…” Chelle trailed off, an odd look on his face. 

Sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪs ᴡʀᴏɴɢ.

“What?” Vimes asked, turning to look at him, only to find that Death was staring at the kid. 

Vimes turned back, only to see the apprentice wizard turning an alarming shade of reddish-purple. 

“Commander!” shouted Angua from the other room, pushing the door open. “I don’t know—” 

Carrot dragged Mulch out of the other room, the wizard wheezing much the same as his friend. Neither sounded like breathing was technically happening where it should, and Vimes jumped to catch Chelle before he could hit the floor, laying him out flat and checking his airways. 

“It’s not natural, Commander,” Angua said, kneeling down anxiously beside them. “It smells like the hourglasses— I think they’re  _ dying—”  _

Vimes looked up at Death for help— or at least a hint of which way they were going, only to find him still staring straight forward. 

Tʜɪs ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ʀɪɢʜᴛ.

And Death disappeared. 

“That means they’re not going to die?” asked Carrot, helping Mulch sit up in an apparent bid to help him breathe better. It didn’t seem to work, purple fading to something much paler. 

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Vimes, uneasy. 

Within moments, it was finished. Both apprentice wizards were dead. It had not been pretty, but it had at least been quick. 

“Bugger,” Vimes said. 


	4. 4

**CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATIONS • A BLACK LIMO • SPIDERS • PUNCTUATION MISTAKES • DISGUSTING MATTERS • JUST REALLY REALLY GROSS**

They sent the wizard Vimes had spoken to in the apartment at the end of the hall to fetch the Watch. In the meanwhile, they kept the apartment shut up. 

Death had not yet reappeared. 

“Did you two get anything out of yours?” Vimes asked, still feeling disoriented over the sudden turn things had taken. 

Carrot and Angua both shook their heads. 

“He was saying a lot of nonsense,” Carrot said, looking with pity at the bodies on the floor. He had found a blanket in one of the rooms to cover them up. “Something about becoming the greatest wizard of all time. He said he was going to learn how to live forever.” 

Vimes felt his face wrinkle in confusion. “He could have talked to the vampires, or the zombies—” 

Angua shook her head. “Suggested that. He said they were inferior forms of living, the prejudiced git. I think among the two of them he was definitely the leader.” 

“Mine said they were acting under someone else’s orders,” said Vimes. 

“Oh, that’s not good,” said Angua. 

“We need to see their life-timers,” said Carrot. 

They looked through their pockets, which revealed nothing, nor did a more detailed search of the dwelling when the rest of the Watch showed up and roped the place off. Soon enough, patrolmen and officers were bustling around the small space. 

Vimes stopped Cheery as she moved in with the iconograph to document the scene. “Captain, most of the city has their life— their hourglasses by now?” 

“Yessir,” Cheery said. “According to the latest reports, about 90%.”

Vimes looked glumly at the former Mulch and Chelle. “So if you had to guess about these two—”    
  
“Statistically, I should think at least one would have one,” Cheery said. 

“I thought you would say that,” Vimes said. “Carry on.” 

She didn’t ask questions, which was a good quality in a Watchman. Vimes returned to Angua and Carrot, both who looked a little wan for the experience. 

“I’ve been trying to call Death, sir,” Carrot said, quietly showing his own hourglass and coin. “Nothing yet.” 

“I think we may be on our own, especially if whoever hired these two figured out how to harness the life-timers,” Vimes said, grimly. He waved to Cheery to let her know she was in charge of the scene— she barely looked up to acknowledge— and led them back onto the stairs into a space with less ears. 

“You think they gave their life-timers to their employer?” Carrot asked as they made their way across the octagonal lawn. It was what they were all thinking. “Maybe they thought he would use them to give them longer life. Mulch sure seemed certain.” 

“I don’t think they knew what they were doing, poor kids,” said Angua. “And it got them killed.” 

Vimes growled. “He killed our only leads, whoever he is. And I don’t think we can count on having got Death in our corner any longer.” 

His Watchmen looked grim. The life-timer in his pocket felt very suddenly heavy. They were back to square one of the Thud board, and probably they were on the Trolls’ side. 

That was when Angua sniffed the air. She looked down the street just as a sleek black carriage bumped to a stop in front of them. If it hadn’t been a bad look for a Watchman to run, Vimes would have booked it the other direction. 

The door opened, and Drumknott, Vetinari’s secretary, smiled benignly at them. “The Patrician requests you at the palace.” 

“All of us, or just me?” Vimes asked, resigned. 

Drumknott smiled blandly. All of Drumknott was bland, if you forgot that he worked for Vetinari and thus was very, very dangerous. “Your Watchmen are welcome to come as well.” 

“Er, sir,” said Carrot, leaning in closer to Vimes. “I thought I might go see Dibbler again—” 

Vimes tried not to let himself visibly blanch at the thought. So many unattended life-timers… yes, it was certainly better if Carrot rounded them up before someone else could. He nodded brusquely. “Of course, Captain.” 

Carrot nodded, and exchanged a glance with Angua. He couldn’t quite make sense of the exchange himself, but when it was done, she stepped up beside Vimes, who sighed. 

Vetinari, it seemed to him sometimes, needed to learn how to make appointments. Then again, that gave Vimes more time to plan an escape, which was probably what the Patrician was trying to avoid. 

Carrot loped off towards Throat Dibbler’s most recent stomping grounds, and Angua and Vimes got into the carriage. “He say what he wants?” Vimes asked. More accurately, the question was  _ will you tell me what Vetinari wants,  _ because Drumknott usually knew these things. 

“I couldn’t say.” 

“Of course not.” 

People got out of the way when they saw Vetinari’s carriage, so they were to the Palace quick enough. The Patrician’s black-suited goons were not appreciated properly when Vimes was there, so at a nod from Drumknott they disappeared to stand stolidly outside the doors of the antechamber into Vetinari’s office. 

“One moment,” Drumknott said, and went into the office proper, shutting the door behind him. 

“Reporting everything he saw, heard, and tasted when he was picking us up,” Vimes told Angua, stretching out his legs to maximum slouching potential. He glared at the clock on the wall in front of them. “The Patrician will want to know before he sees us. Vetinari likes to pretend he knows everything.” 

“Not everything,” Angua said, quietly, taking out her hourglass and examining it. They watched the sand as it fell from one side to another, steady and sure. 

“Not everything,” Vimes agreed.

They stewed in the uncertainty of being the only ones on the Disc who knew Death was missing in action. Vimes wondered, idly, if there was a Death of Dragons. Had to be. The poor things died often enough due to the mistakes of nature, breeding, and putting things in their mouths that they oughtn't.

The door opened. “Lord Vetinari is ready for you,” said Drumknott. 

“Thanks,” said Angua, when it became clear Vimes wasn’t going to. Drumknott inclined his head, and closed the doors behind them as they entered. 

Vetinari was sitting at his desk, and there were already two chairs set in front of it instead of the usual one. He was reading something, or at least  _ looked  _ engrossed in reading something. The Patrician was a busy man, after all, or at least when he cared to show that fact. 

He looked up. “Ah, Commander Vimes,” he said. “And Captain von Uberwald, is it?” He smiled. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.” 

Both Watchmen remained standing, helmets tucked under their arms in perfect uniform standard. 

“Sit, won’t you?” 

“Yessir,” said Vimes reluctantly, and he and Angua sat. 

Vetinari glanced over the paper once more, then straightened it with a stack of other paperwork and put it in his desk drawer. “You have been very busy lately, haven’t you?” 

“That’s the Watch,” Vimes said stoically, trying not to think of the Death token in his pocket. “We’re always busy, sir.” 

“Hm,” said Vetinari. “But more so than usual, I should think? The whole city is talking about the hourglasses. If you catch the— what is it you’re calling him— reverse pickpocketer, I suspect there will be a riot before he can even make it to jail.” 

Vetinari would know by now that the life-timers were not being put into people’s pockets by a mortal creature. He was smart enough for that, which either meant he was trying to get them to think he thought it or letting them know he knew. Just talking to Lord Vetinari was liable to leave a man with a headache, and often to realize he’d been outsmarted only days later. 

Vimes disliked feeling like he was being worked at like a puzzle box when he was in the Palace, and thus typically made an effort to look like the simplest box alive. 

“Maybe, sir,” he said. “Did you call us in for a progress report?”    
  
The Patrician’s lips twitched, though Vimes couldn’t tell if it was in amusement or disapproval. 

“Certainly, I would appreciate you telling me what you know. But I have to admit I am more curious about the two young wizards who were killed under Watch supervision.” 

Vimes found himself suddenly, viscerally curious as to what Vetinari’s life-timer looked like. Black, right? It had to be black, with a man like that, maybe even with black sand on the inside. Or maybe it was all pink with glitter sand… 

Angua bristled next to him. “If you’re implying we did something  _ wrong,  _ sir—”    
  
“No, no, Captain,” Vetinari said, waving away the suggestion. “Of course not. I am only wondering how two healthy young men manage to die within minutes of each other while the Watch looks on.”    
  
He knew it had something to do with the life-timers, Vimes was sure of it. But he didn’t know what the timers  _ were,  _ not for sure. And it probably wouldn’t be a good thing if politicians were suddenly to find out how to kill their enemies untraceably, from afar. 

“Poison, sir,” said Vimes. “Took it ‘afore we even got there; by the time we snagged them it was already too late.”

“You’re saying they poisoned themselves?”    
  
“Couldn’t say, sir.” Vimes stared ahead. “We weren’t there, you see.” 

“Mmm,” said Vetinari. “Do you mind if I ask what led you to the University?” 

_ Yes,  _ thought Vimes, but somehow he was pretty sure that wasn’t what you were supposed to say to the dictator that ran your city and funded your job. 

The door swung open after a perfunctory knock and Drumknott peered through it. “Sorry to interrupt, sir.” He walked across the room and whispered in Vetinari’s ear. Vetinari’s eyebrows rose, just a little, but he smiled benevolently. 

“Of course, Drumknott. It could be important.”    
  
Drumknott crossed the room again and emerged holding a piece of parchment. “Captain Carrot sent this along for you, Duke Vimes,” he said as Vimes winced at the name.

Vimes would bet anything that Drumknott had read that letter already, and had been giving Vetinari the highlights, not asking for permission. He took the paper with narrowed eyes and angled it so only he and Angua could read it. 

He had to stifle a smile. It was from Carrot all right, from only the first glance. The commas alone were enough to make a grammarian weep. 

_ Dear, Commander Vimes,  _

_ I have just finshed talking to C.M.O.T Diblr. I am sorry to say he sold all the hourglases he had just a few, minutes before I got there.  _

Vimes felt himself pale despite himself. All that time, in the hands of someone who would use it for evil. He looked at Angua; her lips were drawn tight too. He looked back down at the letter. 

_ I have told, Detritus to collect, any hourglases that people try to sell to Diblr so we can keep an i on them. Diblr could not remember who bot the timers so i think I might have to get more mony from the ‘special’ fund back at the watchhouse. No, sign, of our other freind yet.  _

_ There is another idea I had but I will need to go back to the  _ _ univercity _ _ universitee to see if it is possible. Will, get, in, contact with you when I can. And tell Angua I might need her soon. Thankyou,  _

_ Captain, Carrot Ironfoundersson.  _

“I hope it isn’t an urgent matter,” Vetinari said. Vimes finished reading and tucked the letter into his pocket. He looked up to answer, mouth open. 

Death was standing behind Vetinari. 

Angua and Vimes jumped. There was a slight clatter of armor as the two of them straightened up and their breastplates impacted the chairs. Out of instinct, Vimes grasped for his sword before his brain could remind him that attacking Death was bad, and, worse, didn’t work. 

This series of events was alarming enough even for the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, who turned quickly in his high-backed chair, a knife appearing out of somewhere into his hand. Of course, for him, there was nothing there. 

Vimes coughed, trying to draw attention back to them. “Nosir,” he said, feeling his heart race from the sudden surprise. “Nothing urgent, er, sir.” 

“Just Carrot checking in,” Angua said, slouching into a deliberately relaxed pose. 

Vetinari turned back to them, suspicious. “Is something wrong?” 

I ᴀᴍ sᴏʀʀʏ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀʀᴜᴘᴛɪᴏɴ. I ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʙᴜsʏ. I ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴘᴀʀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴍᴀʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀʟᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ. Death was still behind the Patrician’s chair, still invisible but looking none the worse for wear. 

“Everything’s fine,” Vimes said. “Just a, um—” 

“Spider,” said Angua. “It’s gone now, sir.” 

“Skittered right up the wall,” said Vimes helpfully. 

For his part, Death seemed to realize he’d appeared in the midst of an awkward situation, and moved from behind Vetinari’s desk to stand instead by Vimes and Angua. 

Vetinari squinted suspiciously. It was obvious he wasn’t buying it, which was fair. “You have been spending a lot of time with the wizards of late,” he said. “Perhaps—”

Vimes had been keeping his gaze steadily on the Patrician in the vaguely awkward way of a man who had just apparently flinched at a spider on the wall. Now, mostly on instinct, he felt something moving in the corner of his eye, and whipped his gaze to the door. Black smoke was pouring out from under it. 

This time, he did stand up, shooting to his feet and drawing his sword. “What the hell is that?” he asked. 

“It looks like the smoke from the book,” Angua said. She had gotten to her feet and drawn her weapon when he had, but only now seemed to be spotting it. 

“Did something  _ happen  _ to you two at the University?” asked Vetinari. “Something, perhaps, with hallucinogenic properties…?” 

Angua and Vimes turned to look at Death. 

Aʜ, he said. I ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ sᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴍᴏᴋᴇ. Sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ I ʀᴇᴠᴇᴀʟ ᴍʏ ᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ ᴀs ᴡᴇʟʟ?

_ “No!”  _ said Vimes and Angua.

There were two thuds in the distant hallway outside. 

“…how many guards were there on the door?” Vimes said. 

“Ah,” said the Patrician. “Two.”

The smoke was curling under the door, coating the floor in oily-thick blackness, almost up to the tops of their shoes. 

“And Drumknott?” 

“Still in the hallway.” Vetinari had secreted the knife away again somewhere, but now he was holding his cane, which was rumored to be rather sharper on the inside. 

Vimes swore. Drawing his sword, he crept up to the door. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he reasoned. “I mean, Drumknott surely keeps his hourglass on him, right?” 

If Vetinari looked surprised by the sudden inclusion of hourglasses into the conversation, he didn’t show it. “Yes, we both have ours,” he said. 

There was a scream outside. It sounded a lot like Vetinari’s secretary. 

“Okay, so he could still be in danger,” Vimes allowed. “Er…” he looked at Death. 

Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ sᴏᴜʟs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʟʟᴡᴀʏ.

“Do you think your guards might not have kept such a close eye on their timers?” asked Angua, slowly. 

“Possibly,” Vetinari allowed, looking less than pleased about it. 

Vimes sighed and opened the door. 

Drumknott was cowering in a corner while the two guards advanced on him slowly, eerily quiet. Their eyes were quite blank, no trace of what little intelligence the palace guards had to begin with. They didn’t move quite right, a strange kind of hyper-fluidity that suggested they had more bones in their bodies than they ought; they slithered toward Drumknott rather than walked. 

As Vimes watched, Drumknott removed a letter-opener from his boot, and flung it with clerical accuracy at one of the guards. It struck in the middle of the forehead, with the sort of meaty thud that echoes in your ears for hours afterward, but the guard didn’t seem to notice. Indeed, thought Vimes, swallowing back a gag, the letter-opener didn’t seem to bother it— and it was certainly an  _ it  _ now— at all, leaving the knife where it sat between the eyes, slowly oozing blood. 

“Watch the Patrician!” Vimes snapped at Angua and darted into the hall. 

He didn’t have much of a plan besides keeping his sword out straight in front of him, but apparently, Death did. He reached the guards just as Vimes reached Drumknott. 

Vimes yanked the confused clerk by the arm, back towards the safety of the office, but found himself halted in his steps through sheer force of awe. Death was wielding his scythe in a way that really helped you remember he was very, very old and very, very powerful. 

Death scythed through the two guards, splitting them neatly in half in the same impossibly powerful motion. The black smoke poured out of the halves like an open wound— and somehow more disturbingly than the actual open wounds, which were gushing with sticky dark blood. 

“What the f—” said poor Drumknott, who had witnessed two guards apparently proving the theory of spontaneous hemicorporectomy [6]. 

This would have been disturbing enough on its own, but then the four halves started to move, wriggling and crawling towards the frozen Vimes and Drumknott. “Buggerallandbloodyhell!” Vimes yelped, and sprinted for the Oblong Office with speed, dragging the clerk behind him. 

Angua shut the doors behind them then turned to gag, then straightened back up with professionalism. “Small gods, sir,” she swore. 

“All right, Drumknott?” asked Vetinari. 

Drumknott straightened his lapels and sniffed with a vaguely disapproving air. “Nasty business, sir,” he said. 

“Zombies?” said Vetinari. 

“Nosir. Zombies don’t bleed, and most of ‘em have much more to say when you poke ‘em in the eye, sir,” said Vimes, breathing hard. 

“Such as ouch,” Angua said helpfully.

“I’m more than sure you’ve got a couple secret passages out of here,” Vimes said. “Care to show us to one, your lordship?” 

But Vetinari was clearly barely paying attention. “This black smoke; I can see it now. That doesn’t seem like a good omen.”    
  
Iᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ.

That’s never a comforting thing to hear from Death, who sort of makes a career out of ill omens. 

“Back exit it is,” Angua said, ushering Vetinari and Drumknott forward. “After you, sirs.”

Calmly, Vetinari skirted the smoke and opened a door. He looked down, as if to check that the floor was still there— it was— then entered. The Watchmen peered in curiously. The room appeared to be a small coat closet, with fresh wooden floors and one or two menacing black cloaks hung up on hooks. On one wall was a portrait of Wuffles the dog. 

Oʜ, ʜᴇ sᴇᴇᴍᴇᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴀᴛ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴ, Death sighed, sounding disappointed. 

Vetinari reached out his cane and tapped the jewel in the middle of Wuffles’ collar. With a rumbling sound, the wall opened up. 

Vimes and Angua gaped. 

“After you,” Vetinari said. 

Nᴏ, said Death. Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs sᴛɪʟʟ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀ ʜᴇʀᴇ. Aɴᴅ I ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴀɴʏ sᴏᴜʟs ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴅᴇsᴛɪɴᴇᴅ.

Vimes grit his teeth. “All right, Captain, you escort the Patrician to the safe-house of his choosing, then leg it back here, understand?” 

“Sir—” Angua protested. 

“I’ve got backup,” Vimes said, thumbing a finger in the direction of Death. “Try to catch up to Carrot, see what he’s cooking up. Go, now.” 

Angua scowled, but anyone could see that getting the Patrician to safety was the top priority at the moment— tyrant or not, Ankh-Morpork would collapse without Vetinari. Someone, or, worse, Carrot, would have to take charge of the city, which was why Vimes was certain Vetinari wouldn’t let himself die yet. 

She growled deep, a throaty noise that most humans weren’t capable of. “Fine,” she said, and gestured the others through the passageway. “If you wouldn’t mind, sirs.”    


Vetinari stooped to go through the doorway, which had clearly been built for slightly shorter dictators than he, but paused. “I should like to meet the friend who is helping you when this is all over,” he said. “I have my own ideas of who it might be.”    
  
Wasn’t that just ominous, thought Vimes. 

Vetinari ducked through the door and disappeared into the gloom, Drumknott following at his heels. 

* * *

[6] Something which had previously only been speculated about by owners of large factories with big threshing machines, who were lax on their safety measures and even more so on telling the truth. 


	5. 5

**IMPROVISED WEAPONRY • A CITY BESIEGED • DEATH IS NEVER THERE WHEN YOU WANT HIM • SMOKING KILLS • VIMES GETS MOIST**

There was a long wood table, war-wounded with spills of ink and scratches, at the far side of Vetinari’s office. Vimes had never seen it in use, but he assumed it was for Vetinari’s Tyrannical Machinations [7]. He started to drag it to the door. 

“What do you mean, still danger? And where did you go?” he grunted. The Tyrannical Machinations were making the table heavier, he could only guess, because the other option was that he wasn’t as young as he used to be. “Earlier, I mean.” 

Death helped him with the table, and the combined force of Vimes’ full efforts and Death’s small contribution sent the table rocketing into the wall. The smoke creatures in the guards would have a tough time getting through, if they managed to make it there while split in half. 

Tʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇʀs ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ, I ᴡᴀs ᴅʀᴀɢɢᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ ᴘʟᴀɴᴇ. I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ɴᴏᴡ ғɪɢᴜʀᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀᴍᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ. He looked sheepish. Iᴛ sʜᴀʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ.

“Oh,” Vimes said, with the realization that he was dealing with forces wildly out of his ken. In the fine tradition of police officers, he countered this by barrelling ahead. “So what the hell are those things?” 

Tʜᴇ ᴋɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴍɪsᴄʀᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴡɪᴢᴀʀᴅs ᴡᴀs ᴛʜᴇ ғɪʀsᴛ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏᴜʀɢʟᴀssᴇs. 

There was a suspicious thump from the direction of the door, like half a body throwing itself at it. 

Tʜɪs ɪs ᴛʜᴇ sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ. Tʜᴇ ᴋɪʟʟᴇʀ ʜᴀs ᴍᴀɴᴀɢᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴇᴀʟ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀɴᴅ ғʀᴏᴍ ʟɪғᴇ-ᴛɪᴍᴇʀs. Wᴏʀsᴇ, ʜᴇ ʜᴀs ғɪɢᴜʀᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴ.

“And it goes in wrong?” Vimes guessed, hoping he was wildly mistaken. 

Vᴇʀʏ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ. Death hesitated. I ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ғɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ.

“Hm?” Vimes had been pressing his ear to the door and only getting increasingly more worrying meaty thumps. 

Tʜᴇ sᴏᴜʟs ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪᴢᴀʀᴅ ʙᴏʏs. Tʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ I ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ғɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ.

“Oh. And that’s bad?” 

Death was silent. 

Another thump on the door, louder and higher up this time. It was significantly higher than half a man could reach, which was worrying. “I’m going to pretend there aren’t more out there.” 

Death went to the door and leaned through it. Wᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪғ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ?

“No.”

Uɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴏᴏᴅ. A pause. Bᴜᴛ ʜʏᴘᴏᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴀʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪs ᴘᴀʟᴀᴄᴇ?

Vimes groaned. He was just a simple copper— he ought to be yelling “all’s well” in the streets or avoiding eye contact with the Thieves’ Guild, not dealing with supernatural monsters and primordial deities. If you couldn’t hit it with a sword, Vimes always said, it was either Nobby [8] or not worth it. 

Well, sometimes it took a simple man to solve a complex problem. 

Something battered at the door again, harder this time. The table shook and started to slide. Vimes braced himself against it. 

The smoke was still pouring through the cracks, and getting thicker. It skirted around Vimes’ feet, searching out targets elsewhere. 

As ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪᴛᴜᴀʟ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇs ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀғᴜʟ, ᴛʜᴇ sᴍᴏᴋᴇ ɢᴇᴛs ᴛʜɪᴄᴋᴇʀ, said Death. Eᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ɪᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇs ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀғᴜʟ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀɴ ᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀʀʏ ᴍᴀɴ ᴄᴀɴ sᴇᴇ ɪᴛ. 

There was nothing ordinary about Lord Vetinari, Vimes thought, shoving at the table some more. This wouldn’t hold forever. “We need a way to trap it,” Vimes realized. “The smoke. It came from the stolen hourglasses, right, which means it _can_ be contained.”   
  
Yᴇs, said Death. Bᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴄᴀɴ ᴏɴʟʏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ᴅᴏᴍᴀɪɴ. I'ᴍ ᴀғʀᴀɪᴅ I'ᴍ ᴄᴜᴛ ᴏғғ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ.

Ah-hah. Like he said, simple man. That was the trouble with all those great thinkers— they got to believing every problem was as complex as it was in their own head. Probably it got even worse when you were as old as time, or so Vimes assumed. [9]

He slid the table back from the door. 

He opened it. 

Death was right— Vimes _really_ didn’t want to know how many dead palace staff were groaning outside the door, because when he opened it he almost closed it right back up. There were probably about twenty of them in all, dead-eyed and watching. 

Vimes took out the Death coin and threw it into the crowd, then closed the door again and slid down to sit on the floor, closing his eyes. 

Aʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛ?

“Ngh,” said Vimes. “That woman had a kitchen knife in her chest.”

Yᴇs, I sᴜᴘᴘᴏsᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴏᴋs ғᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ.

“Urgh,” said Vimes. “Okay, I’m good.” He shook himself. “I’m fine. Can you, er, go check?” The smoke had receded, at least within the office, but that didn’t mean they weren’t lurking somewhere. 

Again, Death went to the door. 

This time, when he returned, there was a palpable air of relief about him. Tʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴀsᴛ ɪs ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ.

Vimes stood up and brushed himself off, squaring himself up embarrassedly and preparing with his whole being to pretend like nothing had happened. He pushed open the door again and grimaced.

The good news was that the dead people were no longer trying to get in. The bad news was that they were still dead. 

Vimes shook his head. “Poor buggers,” he said, picking his way through the bodies. There was a glint of something in the middle of the carnage… _there._ He stooped over and picked up the Death coin. He held it up to the light. 

Bᴜʀɴᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ, Death said, from right beside him. Vimes jumped. 

“One-time use,” Vimes agreed. He looked at the four halves of what used to be two guards and frowned. “They were after the Patrician.” 

Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ, Death agreed. I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇᴛ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴅᴇᴀʟɪɴɢs ᴡɪᴛʜ Lᴏʀᴅ Vᴇᴛɪɴᴀʀɪ. Considering Death’s line of work, this wasn’t all that surprising. Cᴜʀsɪɴɢ ʜɪs ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪs ᴀ ᴘᴏᴘᴜʟᴀʀ ᴀғᴛᴇʀʟɪғᴇ sᴘᴏʀᴛ.

There was a window at the far side of the hall, letting in a little light. Vimes walked up to it and peered out— a view of the palace gardens. People were running away from the front gates, which meant that though the creatures in the hall might have been gone, they definitely weren’t _all_ gone. 

“Damn,” said Vimes, thinking wistfully of Death’s scythe. It had at least slowed down the timer-thralls, if not actually stopped them. But they needed a more permanent solution. “Can you find my Watchmen? I’m quite sure we need backup. Maybe you can help them.” 

Death considered this. I ᴄᴀɴ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ᴛʀʏ. And he disappeared. 

Vimes stared at the spot where he used to be, and blinked. Then he swore, and ran for the door. 

* * *

[7] It was where Vetinari did his crossword puzzles. 

[8] Too short, and surprisingly quick. 

[9] It isn’t polite to ask an entity his age. 

* * *

Someone recognized him when he stepped outside, and skidded to a stop instead of continuing to run. The Street of Small Gods was crowded with fleeing people, going Hubward and apparently out of the city. 

“Commander Vimes!” she said. Vimes thought he recognized her as one of the new blacksmithys from Dragon’s Landing. She was trembling, and holding a large iron axe and tugging an anvil on a cart. [10] “You gotta get over there. There’s smoke in the streets— and the golems can’t stop it. I don’t think it’s fire.” 

“It’s not,” said Vimes grimly. “Get going to safety, past the gates at least. Don’t pass the palace if you can help it; maybe go through Upper Broadway.” 

The woman didn’t need any more encouragement and took off running. 

The smoke was visible now from far away, pooling up on the streets where people were rapidly taking their leave, which meant they could see it too. Death said that happened when the buggery with the timers got stronger, so things were definitely not looking up. 

He couldn’t call Death. He didn’t have anything to arrest. For lack of better ideas, Vimes ran the opposite direction of the fleeing people. That was always a good rule of thumb in the heroing business, which of course Vimes was not in. 

The streets were emptying out the further he went into the city, following the Street of Small Gods, but there didn’t appear to be any more timer-thralls. 

People in Ankh-Morpork didn’t just run from a little ominous smoke, at least not without taking some time to see if it would be entertaining or not, but there was something unnerving about this fog. It crept unease up Vimes’ spine even with him knowing what it was. The blackness swirled darker and thicker the further he went, until just walking felt like he was moving through tar. 

With no clear destination in mind but the vague sense that he should like to smoke the cigars in his desk, Vimes ducked down an alley and headed for the Watch House. As he crossed Brass Bridge, he found that the smoke was levelling out into a thick but traversable menace. 

In a city as crowded as Ankh-Morpork, walking empty streets in the middle of the day was quite the unnerving experience. 

Nervously, Vimes glanced about, scanning the streets and the rooftops. He was alarmed to spot a dark shape diving down from up above, from out of the mist. He ducked, only to find Constable Downspout landing on the balustrade next to him. 

He straightened up and coughed. “Constable,” he said. “Report?” 

“Real bad, boss,” Downspout said. A pigeon flew by, and Downspout didn’t even watch it, which meant things _were_ bad. “The whole city is filling up, from the Palace out.”   
  
“Are there dead people coming, er, alive again?” 

Downspout cleared his throat. It sounded like gravel, which proved to be correct a moment later when he coughed some up. He shook his head. “Just coming from the Palace again, sir. They seem to be looking for something— they’re mostly leaving everybody else alone unless they get in the way. We haven’t had any luck killing them, sir.” 

“They’re still after the Patrician,” Vimes said, with a frown. Sure, a lot of people wanted to kill Vetinari, but a man with the power to control death wouldn’t have to worry about the city’s most lovable tyrant. Honestly, for the most part the common man lived their lives without particularly caring who ruled the city, so long as they got fed in the change of power.

Actually, there was something to that… 

Vimes’ mind started pulling at strings like a man unravelling a sweater. “Get to the Watch House. Send people to calm down the civilians, and make sure they all know where their hourglasses are. Have you seen Carrot?” 

“Nosir. No one’s seen him or Captain von Uberwald.” 

Busy, then. Or so he hoped. 

“Well, hop to it, Constable. I’ve got a few things to check out, but I’ll try to stop by the Yard. Have Carrot or Angua come find me if you locate them.”

“Yessir. Know what’s going on, boss?” 

Vimes pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“That bad, huh?” Downspout crouched back on his haunches, preparing to take to the skies. “You got it. See you later.”

“Constable?” 

“Uh-huh?” 

“Send someone over to check on Sybil and Young Sam, won’t you?” 

Constable Downspout made his best attempt at a salute— a little awkward when one was made of stone and spent the better part of his days sitting motionless on rooftops— and caught the air, soaring away. 

Vimes considered his options for a moment, then bolted the rest of the way down the bridge. 

A man designed for a healthy amble, was Vimes, and his knees and back didn’t particularly agree with his current method of travel. But though their mysterious timer villain may have started with the Palace in creating his thralls, he had no doubt that he’d soon be using any other hourglasses he’d got his hands on. The city would get very dangerous, very fast. 

At least running gave him some time to think. 

That little idea thread he’d been pulling on kept on pulling. The Patrician… who wanted a man like that dead? Well, everyone, but most people had a long laundry list of enemies that they would kill before they even thought about crossing the ruler of Ankh-Morpork. That patron who had stiffed on the tip, the neighbor with the yappy little dog, the owner of the shop across the way who _happens_ to sell the same things you do, at a slightly lower price. All people to kill. You only went after the Patrician first if you wanted power, real power. 

And who wanted power above all else? 

The rich. 

Vimes increased his pace across the bridge. The kids from the University had to be paid with something, besides just the promise of immortality. And with the Patrician out of the way— if Vetinari could be killed, which Vimes sometimes doubted— command of Ankh-Morpork, as well as its banks and armies and probably some hidden treasures, would go to the strongest man. Or woman. 

And there really wasn’t a lot stronger than the ability to control the dead. 

He was almost to the Watch House now; he could see the torches burning in the distance through the fog. In fact, he thought he saw a few of his Watchmen, armor shining dimly in the light. But why were there so many of them out and about when they should have been inside the Yard or dispersed throughout the city?

He squinted, then swore.   
  
His fellow coppers were fighting something, dark shapes in the mist. If he strained his ears, he could hear the faint sound of metal on metal, of grunts and of the inevitable destruction that came about when Detritus got in a dust-up. What he didn’t hear were voices— no war cries. Timer-thralls, must have been. 

Also, he heard footsteps. 

Coming from behind him. 

Vimes closed his eyes, just for a moment, and sighed. That was when something hit him in the back. 

Because he had been running, when he tripped, he skidded several feet, armor sparking against the cobbles. He hit the side of the bridge. The sudden boost forward gave him a moment’s advantage, and he glanced at what was now in front of him. More timer-thralls. 

There were probably six of them, but it was hard to make out details between the sudden surge of adrenaline and the darkening skies. 

I could take them all, thought Vimes sulkily, If only they’d die like regular creatures. How’s a man supposed to fight something that takes a sword to the chest as nothing more than a free sword? This was, in Vimes’ mind, dirty fighting. 

He scrambled to his feet, aching, as they continued to advance. 

Vimes thought, with some relief, that he didn’t recognize any of the dead faces currently chasing after him. One of the men had apparently already been in a scuffle; one arm was hanging off and still bleeding profusely. 

He drew his useless sword. “Maybe we can talk about this, eh, lads?” 

They did not want to talk about it. 

They came forward as one. Whoever was controlling the thralls, if they had ever cared about not hurting people, apparently didn’t care if the Watch ended up casualties. Vimes managed to push off the first three, ducking mostly out of instinct as someone’s fist flew right over his head. 

It got tougher after that. It was difficult to fight one enemy that didn’t have anything to lose, much less six of them. Vimes would punch one of them only to get that head slammed right back into his fist, causing tremors all up and down his arm. 

His armor only protected his body, not his face, and Vimes was getting a nice collection of scratches and bruises. He was still backed against the stone of the bridge barrier, with no room to maneuver. He could have sworn one of the stone hippos above him was cowering. 

“Aw, hell,” he said, to himself. 

Then he turned around and jumped off the bridge. 

The river Ankh was not a pleasant swim at the best of times. At worst, it was like walking on highly corrosive concrete. Today was somewhere in the middle. 

Vimes hit with not so much a _splash_ as a _spla-doink._

It had rained recently, so at least there was a sort of flow to the river. It would have been highly embarrassing to go through all the trouble only to get stuck in the one place. Instead, he sort of glooped along to the current. 

He struggled around to look at his pursuers, only to see them peering off the side of the bridge in blank confusion. Good. One problem down. 

He was also starting to sink. If he could wriggle out of his breastplate, it might make things easier, but at this point to try to get to the buckles would only get him more mired in the river. He’d lost his helmet some indeterminable time ago, and the rest of him was getting increasingly more mucky. Vimes was rapidly becoming more mud than man. 

One time someone had left a _Farmer’s Almanac_ in the privy, and Vimes could remember reading something about quicksand. Awkwardly, he moved onto his back so his nose was at least above the “water,” and to his surprise he mostly stopped sinking. He did not, however, stop stinking. At this rate, he’d be able to take out Angua at a hundred paces. 

Reaching up a cautious hand to wipe guck out of his eyes and sternly reminding himself not to get seasick, Vimes took stock of his surroundings. Theoretically, he could swim to shore, a few yards away, but he could see New Bridge coming up close ahead, and more dark and sinister figures on it. 

What did the coppers in Uberwald have to deal with? Not this, he’d guess. 

* * *

[10] One thing you could say about Ankh-Morpork was that they would quite literally take anything that wasn’t nailed down. It was uncertain whether this woman was trying to protect the tools of her trade from thieves or had spotted an opportunity [11], but Vimes wasn’t inclined to care at the moment. 

[11] The Guild of Thieves ran a few special deals in times of riot, magical crisis, or the age old law of Finders Keepers. 

* * *

Staying afloat in the water was getting tiring, and Vimes took a deep breath, steeling himself. He knew he’d have to fight the currents at the Hubward turn of the river. He’d need energy to get to shore there instead of being swept away the opposite direction down the river, fighting against the waters. 

Well. “Waters”. 

He could see the shore now. It was too far away for the gods to be smiling at him. Probably they were making funny faces. 

Groaning, he started to swim. 

The going got rockier the closer to shore he got. It felt like moving through mud, going against the current— he was tired of swimming even before he started getting batted around by waves. Vimes bumped against several rocks on the shoreline before it spat him out onto a kind of levee by the shipping lane. Ankh-Morpork had a number of these little outcroppings from the river for flood-times; not that it ever helped. 

Vimes lay on one now, face-down, thoroughly exhausted, grimy, and beat up. There was a wall of silt and general debris stretching somewhere a few feet above his head. That meant he would have to get up and climb it.

Or he could lay here.

Vimes considered this option for longer than he would like to admit. Then he turned himself around and stood up, creakily. Parts of the river Ankh glooped off of him softly, sadly. The air was still filled with the death mist, and didn’t seem to be getting any clearer. 

He heaved himself up onto the street. 

Someone screamed, and something that felt a whole lot like a high-heeled shoe hit him in the chest. Resigned, he tumbled backwards into the levee. 

There was heavy silence for a moment, then, the voice that had screamed called out again, sheepish. “…Commander Vimes?” 

Vimes had landed, once more, on his face. Still, he shut his eyes. “Moist von Lipwig?” he asked, sighing. 

“And Adora Belle Dearheart,” said a second, female voice, which explained the shoe. 

Vimes nodded into the mud, then got up again and clambered up the hill. Two sets of hands helped him up this time, which was nice. 

Moist was standing there, cringing in his golden suit. Miss Dearheart was barefoot except for a pair of socks, which had to have belonged to Moist judging by the color and the hint of bare ankle Vimes could see above Moist’s gaudy shoes. 

She was holding one stiletto heel in her hand, the other nowhere to be seen. 

“Sorry, Commander,” said Moist. “In my defense, you came up looking like a bog monster, and Adora Belle only hit you because she was startled by my, er, manly yell.” 

“There are creatures in the city, Commander Vimes,” said Adora Belle, looking quite put out as she lit a cigarette. Her previous one had apparently fallen when she’d smacked Vimes with her shoe. As Vimes watched, Moist subtly tried to put out the still-lit cigarette with his foot. “Quite a lot of them, in fact. I lost my other heel in the forehead of a rather nasty woman.” 

“Ah, socks,” Vimes said knowledgeably. He squinted around the shoreline. There weren’t any more of the thralls, but the streets weren’t as deserted this side of the Ankh. He could see a few buildings from here, and the occasional twitch of a curtain or hastily-stifled light let him know some of the townspeople had holed up instead of running. “What are you two doing here?” 

“It’s date night,” Moist said, long-suffering. “Adora Belle wanted to go check up on the Trust.” The Golem Trust was halfway across town and across the river, which explained why they weren’t cowering in the fortified halls of the Bank or the basement of whatever inevitably ridiculously-priced restaurant they’d been eating at. 

“People loot in times of crisis,” Adora Belle said sharply. 

“Anyway, Commander, how did you end up in the river?” asked Moist hurriedly. 

As if to remind Vimes of the situation, more river-goo sloughed off, just in time to remind him of a set of nasty bruises where his armor had protected him but slammed into his ribs. “Police business,” said Vimes, stolidly. 

“In the river?” asked Adora Belle. 

“Have you been up King’s Way?” Vimes said. 

“No, we were a few streets over,” said Moist. 

King’s Way was the rich part of town, the sort of place Vimes wouldn’t have been caught dead [12] in before he’d more or less accidentally fallen in love with a woman of Importance. It was where Ankh-Morpork’s rich and famous rubbed elbows with the famous and rich. 

Adora Belle took a drag of her cigarette. “Are you going to arrest someone there? I have to assume this smoke—” here she exhaled a long stream of her own personal death fog— “Isn’t just a perk of living in our city. Some wanker is doing this.” 

Moist made a token scandalized noise at his fiancee’s language.

“Yes,” said Vimes, having got his breath back, mostly. He straightened up and tried to wipe some of the Ankh off his sword. In places, the metal was threatening to corrode under the bad influence of whatever was in the river. “But not for much longer.” As he said it, he wondered how, exactly, a lone, slightly aging, soggy wet copper was going to take down a necromancer. “Get to safety.” 

Moist and Adora Belle traded glances. 

“We’ll come with you,” said Adora Belle. 

Moist was good at those reassuring and vaguely blinding smiles. “I’d like to see history in the making!” 

“And I still have one high heel left.” 

* * *

[12] Or alive, for that matter, or any of the states in between.


	6. 6

**PARKOUR • DANGER • INADVISABLE ESCAPE ROUTES • IMPROVISED WEAPONRY • RETURN OF THE WATCH**

There was a large group of timer-thralls blocking the pathway to get onto the main street from which most of the houses branched off of. This meant that they had to go around. It also meant Vimes hadn’t been able to make up excuses to visit Ramkin Estate as he’d been planning. 

They were all jumpy, clustered close together and flinching at shadows. The death smoke was getting thicker and more menacing, and had started to take on the smell of rot. It was only a matter of time, Vimes thought, before their criminal figured out how to take out of the hourglasses of regular people, ones who’d had the good sense to keep ahold of their timers. 

Vimes yanked Moist back before he could step around a corner, and the three of them watched as one of the timer-thralls shambled by. 

“They’re searching,” remarked Adora Belle. 

“Looking for Vetinari,” decided Vimes. 

Moist winced. “Ooh, I’d bet on the Patrician in that fight.” 

No one disagreed. It was a foolish man who bet against Vetinari. 

Somewhere, there was a loud sound like an explosion, and a burst of yellowish light that reflected off the buildings. 

“What was that?” asked Adora Belle, but Vimes had already recognized the sound. 

Moist scaled the side of one of the stone walls separating the manors from the common folk with suspicious ease, squinting out over the city. He kept one hand wedged in between a stone carving of a lion eating a bear and the other shading his eyes. “Came from Ramkin House.” 

“That was the sound of a dragon exploding,” said Vimes proudly. “Sybil’s not letting any of those thralls near the house.” Not to mention she had probably mobilized her army of various maids and butlers; they were a group that would keep the tidiness of the home at  _ all  _ costs. 

“Get down from there,” Adora Belle said, craning her neck up to look at him with her hands on her hips. “You’re a beacon to the whole bloody city in that ridiculous suit of yours.” 

“No, wait,” said Vimes. “See anything else?” 

“Er…” Moist hoisted himself up a little more with a scrabble on the stone edifice. “Oh! There’s no smoke at one of the estates. I’d say by the looks of it it’s on HobKnob End.”

Unofficial neighborhoods had sprung up from the sprawl of estates and large manors, separated by invisible property lines and various rivalries and arbitrary family feuds. These makeshift neighborhoods didn’t have any government-recognized names. But as was the case any time a group of people gathered together, if something wasn’t named, people named it, and rather less generously than perhaps the city planners [13] would have done themselves. 

Vimes knew just where Moist was talking about, either way. 

Moist skittered back down the wall, his suit indeed shining in the murky false twilight. It took a special man to be Moist von Lipwig, and only partially because of the name. 

On wordless agreement, they made for HobKnob End, skirting the edges of the streets. 

Twice, they heard dragon explosions. Vimes winced; useful little fireballs they may have been, but Sybil loved the poor things— she didn’t like to see them go up in smoke. 

Getting to HobKnob end— about as central to King’s Way as you could get, for those who  _ really  _ liked to flaunt their wealth— it was obvious what house Moist had been talking about. 

It was Reche Manor, of the Morpork Reches, a family that Vimes was vaguely familiar with, only in the way that most rich people were aware of other rich people. Possibly they’d been introduced at an event or something. 

The manor and its grounds stretched out bigger than the Pseudopolis Yard Watch House, and it was an imposing building even without the supernatural goings-on. It was two stories; built out of some kind of black stone, with marble interspersed here and there for pillars. A giant relief of a dragon being killed by a knight decorated the area above the second floor, several feet high. Tall ceilings and maybe an attic. The death smoke stopped at the property line—  _ exactly _ at the property line, Vimes would reckon. It was, however, swirling ominously above the roof of the main mansion. 

Moist laughed nervously. 

The main house was branched out into other wings, equally as ostentatious. As Vimes watched, a stream of timer-thralls exited one door and went in through another. Patrolling. 

Vimes took out a cigar and lit it, cupping the flame in his hand so that it couldn’t be seen. He chewed it for a moment. “How fast do you think you can get to the Golem Trust and bring some of your golem friends back?” 

Adora Belle was pale but steely. “Quicker if we run.” She and Moist clasped hands. 

“Will you be all right alone?” Moist asked. 

“Of course.” 

“We’ll be back quick as we can,” promised Adora Belle, and the two of them took off down the street, leaving Vimes standing alone in front of the house. 

The Watch would be busy dealing with the thralls and keeping the peace. It would take some time for two people, moving stealthily and one of them in stocking feet, to reach the other side of the city. Sybil and Young Sam were holed up at home, safe and— he hoped— sound. He couldn’t contact Death. 

Well, there was one thing Vimes knew how to do, and that was police. 

He took a few fortifying drags of his cigar and crept around the perimeter, sure to stick to the outsides where the black fog rolled and he would be harder to spot. Having dirty armor worked to his advantage— no glint of metal to give him away. 

Vimes needed someone to arrest. To do that, he needed in the house. 

The timer-thralls didn’t seem to have that much initiative. They got an order and carried it out. So that meant someone had to have given them the order to patrol, and that someone was probably the rich guy who owned this manor. 

There was an obvious course of action here. 

Avoiding the thralls every so often, he crept his way around and found the servant’s entrance. As he had expected, there was no one guarding it. Rich people forgot the help even existed; it was a good bet that their necromancer hadn’t locked down the servant’s entrance, which was designed to be unobtrusive and almost invisible anyway.

Vimes glared at the door, and put one single foot over the property line. He didn’t disintegrate, which in Vimes’ book was a pretty good thing. He spat out his cigar and stomped it on the ground. The smell could alert someone indoors. At the very least the Watch would know he’d been here. 

Then he sprinted towards the door. 

There was a sort of overhang over the servant’s entrance, with pillars on each side. This was, Vimes had learned through experience at Ramkin House, so that the servants could smoke without being seen from the outside. Now he skidded to a stop and sort of leapt behind one, breathing hard. 

No sound of following feet ensued, and no alarms of the sort one usually heard when they’d been spotted in an enemy area. Usually it was something inane like “Hey, you there!” or “You’re not supposed to be here!” Most skulkers already knew they weren’t supposed to be where they were; that was the whole point. 

Vimes risked a look out into the smokeless courtyard. Empty. 

He tried the servant’s entrance door once he was sure the coast was clear. It was locked, which was soon remedied by the traditional Policeman’s Kick-And-Say-Ouch-Then-Hit-It-Again-With-The-Butt-Of-Your-Sword maneuver. The door swung open with an only slightly injured creak. Vimes slipped inside. 

It was opulent. 

Vimes sometimes tried to justify the fact that he was technically one of the upper class now that at least they weren’t  _ obnoxious  _ about it. Most of their floors were scuffed or scorched from various baby dragons, and the disorder had only increased exponentially each day both Young and Old Sam lived there. Sybil also had a very no-nonsense decorating scheme— her requirements were that the furniture would hold someone of her hardy lifestyle and considerable girth, and also that there was at least one uncomfortable chair for the visitors she didn’t like.

This house was not that. Vimes would bet good coin that  _ all  _ the chairs were uncomfortable. Once he got out of the servants’ area, a quick trip through a door that led straight to the dining room, he was able to see it in all its glory. The carpet was extremely lush, helpful for hiding the sounds of footsteps, but snarly enough that it felt like it was a minor hindrance to his movement. 

Everything smelled like rot. It was different even than the smoke outside; more putrid and stinking of something distinctly evil. It was very clear that whatever was being done to the boundaries between life and death, it wasn’t good. 

Vimes couldn’t remember how many people lived here. 

The Reches were a couple, maybe? He couldn’t recall if there were more of them than just the two, but he seemed to remember a husband and wife, the husband pointy-faced and unpleasant, and the wife almost thin enough to slip out of sight if she turned to the side. He couldn’t remember if there were children or extended family, but he didn’t think so. 

There was no sign of either of them or their hypothetical children; Vimes continued through the empty halls. There were several corridors off the dining room, and he chose one at random. A few doors down, his boots crunched on something. 

He looked down. 

Glass, or maybe clay. When he crouched down to look, it appeared to be the remains of a ugly-patterned vase, surrounded by droplets of blood. Someone had taken a walloping here. 

The carpet was still thick and neatly-kept here, so Vimes could spot the indentations in it and follow them. It looked to his eyes like someone had been dragged. The trail led to a broom cupboard-looking thing, which was wedged shut. 

Vimes pulled it open, and stood back. 

It was the Sir Reche. He fell out of the closet quite unceremoniously, face-first and very much dead. 

He had barely missed Vimes’ boots, and would have fallen on top of him if he hadn’t moved out of the way to begin with. Vimes crouched in front of him and rolled him over. He was even more sallow-faced in death, blood trickling in dried streaks past his hairline. 

The vase had done him in, Vimes deemed, and he took a moment to close the man’s eyes before checking his pockets. No life-timer, just a small but ornate billfold filled with some of von Lipwig’s fancy new money, and a pack of Jolly Sailor, both of which Vimes left where they were. 

It was eerily quiet inside now, and Vimes left Reche where he lay and continued trekking down the hall, thoroughly unnerved. Where was the wife? Dead? Or something more sinister?

There were no more convenient blood drops or smashed carpets to show the way now, and Vimes took a moment to consider his current method of simply wandering around the place. This estate would take forever to clear, especially if he stopped at all the closets along the way to check for corpses. 

He was sure this place was where the smoke was coming from, where the timers had started to go wrong. So the criminal had to be working out of somewhere. A base of operation. 

All the rooms he’d seen so far down here were for entertaining guests of some kind: a music room, dining room, sitting room. If he wanted the private stuff, he’d need to go upstairs. He hunted around for a staircase, finding one at the back end of the house.

If possible, the second floor was more eerily quiet than the first. 

Vimes chanced a look out a wide window set into an alcove, and saw no one on the streets, just thick black smoke. Small fires glowed through it here and there— fighting, perhaps, or unattended candles. The city was in danger. 

He grit his teeth and stomped down the hallway. 

Vimes was looking for a study. It was a private place to work your dark magics, after all, and usually there were comfy chairs to sit in. Perfect for the enterprising bad guy. 

He found a likely contender in a big oak door at the end of a hallway. It exuded the sort of musty book-smell of the Library, and the smell of cigar smoke. It was at a good angle on the side of the house that the window would catch the midday sun for a good catnap. 

Also, smoke was slowly oozing in under the door. 

Unlike the rest of the smoke Vimes had seen, this seemed to be moving with particular purpose, and it almost had weight to it. When he cautiously drew his sword and crouched down, he saw that it was composed of tiny shards of sand, swirling in. 

He stood up. 

Something was rattling in his pocket. 

Vimes fished in his muddy trouser pockets for a moment. His hands found purchase on an object that was still vibrating frantically, and he pulled it out to find his life-timer. 

It was losing time at an alarming rate, fast enough that he could feel the sand rushing through from one side to the other. 

Now, it was almost empty. 

“Bugger,” said Vimes, then went inside. 

* * *

[13] Not that Ankh-Morpork employed any city planners. They’d be offended if you suggested they did; Morporkians took great pride in their terribly laid-out streets and lack of drainage systems.

* * *

It was like looking for a black cat in a black room. 

The smoke had filled the space, and it was that sand-smoke, cloying and unbreathable. Vimes had to fight a cough as he stepped into the room, drawing up a sodden handkerchief from his pocket to press over his mouth. It tasted terrible; the smoke and the cloth. 

His thighs impacted with something, hard, and Vimes flipped over whatever it was and landed face-down on the carpet. This seemed in line with the rest of the day.

He didn’t bother to move— it was the same level of visibility either way— and groped out a hand to see what he’d hit. It was a table of some kind— a low one, judging by the avalanche of papers when Vimes’ hand brushed the top. 

Then there was a grinding noise, like some sort of clockwork machinery coming to a sudden halt. Vimes lifted his head and saw the air clearing, slowly. The smoke was headed in one direction, funnelling into something. He didn’t get up. 

As the air started to clear, from his hidden position under the coffee table— because that was what it must have been— he was surprised to see a work desk at the far wall. It was occupied. 

There was a stick-thin woman sitting behind it, holding a box the size of a turkey. The sand seemed to be flowing into it; even though even the biggest container couldn’t possibly hold all the smoke clearing out of the room and flowing in from the hall. 

She had a special manic look in her eye that let Vimes know most of the marbles had rolled under the couch years ago. He was fairly sure this was the Lady Reche, though her hair was in tatters and most of the fine jewelry one might expect of a woman of her station wasn’t there, except for an exceptionally tacky raven-shaped brooch. It probably weighed almost as much as she did, though when you were considering the Lady Reche that wasn’t all that impressive a number. 

She hadn’t spotted Vimes yet. He wriggled to try to get a better look. 

She was siphoning the sand, all right, and must have been using it to make the thralls. But she was also trying to do something else with it, dipping another object quite frantically into the box. He squinted, and caught a glimpse of the light before he realized exactly what it must have been— her hourglass. 

The wizard kids had told them someone was attempting to extend life forever— that must have been exactly what this woman was trying to do. 

But whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be working.    
  
As Vimes watched, she drew up the hourglass like she was dipping out of a well, but the sand flowed right back out the bottom— a physical impossibility that kind of made Vimes’ head hurt. 

“Why isn’t this working?!?” she screamed, suddenly, and Vimes jumped. She couldn’t be talking to him…? 

An Igor melted out of the shadows. Igors were quite good at melting out of the shadows. “I don’t know, mithtress,” he said, hunching low. An Igor is happiest with his job when he’s working under a madman, the kind that says things like  _ “Ah-hah-hah-hahahaha! You have stepped right into my trap!”  _ or  _ “I’ll show them all!”  _ _   
_   
This Igor looked like he was walking on clouds. 

“The book did not have any informathon about ex _ thending  _ the use of the timerths,” he said. “Jutht, you know, killing.”    
  
“It didn’t say anything about these weird zombie things either, but we made them!” Lady Reche said. “Somehow. I want to fill my timer! I need more sand!” she shook it in the air, maniacally. “I will be the first Patrician to live forever. I’ll show them! I’ll show them all!” 

Yeah, there it was. 

Vimes realized he had no idea what to do. Sure, his  _ job  _ was arresting sundry Criminal Types and Bad Elements, but he was face-to-face— or, well, face-to-shoes— with a woman who, if she got her hands on his hourglass, could kill him. It seemed she was getting more powerful, too, which meant that she might not even need the life-timer to do it. And his hourglass itself seemed increasingly unconvinced of his continued survival if he went along this course. 

Then again, any person could kill him if they were in the same room together anyway, right? So it was kind of like he had better odds than everyone  _ else  _ in the city. 

He could fight back. 

Of course, that might require a more solid plan than laying here on the carpet and hoping no one noticed him. His sword was still in its sheath, but he could  _ maybe  _ take out both her and the Igor, if they were surprised. 

That was when the smoke completely cleared, and Lady Reche looked down. 

“You’re not supposed to be here!” she accused, pointing at Vimes. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking the same thing?” 

This did not seem to make Reche very happy. She stood up quickly, enough that she toppled the plush chair she’d been sitting in. “ _ The Watch?  _ This is unacceptable!”    
  
Vimes stood up. He thought he should probably stall, mostly because he didn’t know what else to do. “You killed your husband,” he said. “Why?”

She bared her teeth. “He tried to stop me. He said I was crazy. Me!” 

_ “No,”  _ Vimes said. “Really?”

He felt pretty satisfied about the state of his plan. Get a sufficiently mad villain, and you had your next three hours of entertainment covered, even if sometimes you had to listen from a chair with straps on the wrist part. She looked like she was gearing up for a speech. 

But, hang on, where was the— 

“Igor!” Reche called. “Get him!” 

While Vimes had been struggling to his feet, the Igor had crept around in the shadows on the outer edges of the room so that he was behind Vimes. He’d be on Vimes any moment. 

Thankfully, Reche’s command served more as a warning than anything else, and Vimes was able to draw his sword and throw it blindly backwards before he even knew he was moving. 

There was a  _ squelch,  _ and a pause. 

“Ouch, thir,” said the Igor. 

Vimes pulled his sword out with another unfortunate squishing sound and ducked forward in the same movement. The Lady Reche, not expecting such a move, startled backwards, just enough that Vimes could grab the box and bolt forward. 

The Igor was still blocking the exit, and there was a perfectly good window besides. 

Vimes climbed out of it. 

There was a pointed arch thing that rose up from the front door; a cover for guests waiting in the rain. Vimes stepped out onto that and scrambled over the steep edges. He had planned on going down and dropping to solid ground, but now he could see that it was all steep stone and marble that way— a drop straight to death.

Then he had to choose between dropping his sword and dropping the box for a better handhold— he kept the box and watched forlornly as his weapon tumbled and stuck point-first into the ground.

The Reche locked in stone battle with the dragon stared judgmentally at him. Vimes grabbed the statue’s sword and used it to pull himself up. The rest of the carving was a struggle upwards— there were lots of handholds but they came at odd times. Apparently the original artists hadn’t planned on any crazy Watchmen climbing up the artwork, for some reason. Not to mention he only had one real arm to use, juggling the box in the crook of the other.

It was at times like this that Vimes realized how much he’d rather be reading  _ Where’s My Cow  _ and getting yellow and blue handprints up his shirtclothes. 

Only a few more feet to the roof.

He chanced a look downwards, not all too surprised to see Igor clambering steadily after him, apparently mostly unrushed. He had a body built for climbing, this Igor, and Vimes found himself wondering who most of it had originally belonged to. 

No sign of Lady Reche.

There was a stretch of flattish roof where part of the art relief levelled off— a fighting ground for a smaller set of stone figures locked in mystical heroics, and a ledge upon which pigeons apparently favored. 

Vimes scrambled up onto it, getting his breath back. “Don’t suppose we could talk this out, fellow?” he called down to the Igor, who was still advancing upwards. 

Igor paused to give this patient thought. “Don’t think so, thir,” he said after a moment. “It’s hard to find a proper madman— er, madwoman— these days, you thee. Mith Reche is truly a vithionary. No hard feelings, I hope, thir.”

Vimes sighed. “No hard feelings,” he said, standing on one foot and beginning to wriggle his toes. “Real bonkers, is she?” 

“Deranged,” said Igor happily. 

“Ah,” said Vimes, and finally managed to loosen his laces. “Well then, I’m sorry about this.”    
  
He dropped his boot on Igor’s head. 

With a sort of befuddled alarm, Igor lost his grip and tumbled to the ground below. There was an ominous  _ ca-runch,  _ then nothing. 

Vimes skittered up the wall as fast as he could. Admittedly, this wasn’t all that fast. The Guild of Assassins would have rated the building as a 2.5 on the edificeering scale— hardly a challenge for an experienced wall-climber. But Vimes’ main source of high-altitude training was going up and down the stairs in the Yard, and he was admittedly not all that up to the task.

His hands were sweaty as he climbed, and he tried very hard not to think about the almost empty timer in his pocket. Get up to the roof, he thought, then you can find a nice door to the attic and collapse through that. Take a nap in an old, moldering baby crib or something. 

After what seemed like an eternity, Vimes’ fingers found purchase on the corner of the roof— with relief, he heaved himself over it and wheezed. The roof had looked vaguely pointed from the ground, but that turned out to be an artificial artifice for the stone relief, tented at top just so there was more room to work with. That was good— Vimes had pictured struggling not to roll down the sides like a copper-inna-bun. 

The rest of the roof was flat, blocked off by the false points of stone on the two sides opposite each other and with nothing between you and a drop to the ground on the other two. 

He got to his feet, one-shoed, still clutching the box he’d taken. 

The sky was still, worryingly, filled with that black smoke, swirling just a few feet above his head. Vimes considered trying to use the box to stop it— maybe spilling out the sand he’d seen Reche working with— but then his head filled with visions of the entire city made into timer-thralls. Until he knew how to use it, it was probably better to leave it alone for the right authorities, i.e. a skeleton man with glowing eyes. 

He scanned the roof— there. A lot of these old established houses had access to the roofs from the attic for maintenance, or, depending on  _ how  _ old and rich the place was, escape. This one had an escape hatch right in the middle, made out of a different material from the rest and raised slightly. Maybe once upon a time there had been a ladder that extended off the roof for quick escape from the rioting poor and hungry, but it was gone now. Vimes bolted for the trap door. 

It opened menacingly, like a rearing dragon, before he could get there. 

Vimes jerked back in surprise, scrambling a little to get his feet back under him. He was uneven without his other boot, quite literally wrong-footed. 

Reche had appeared at the hatch, balancing on something Vimes couldn’t see below her skirts, so it looked eerily like she was floating in midair. She had a dagger. [14]

“You could kill someone with that thing,” said Vimes weakly. He might be able to kick her down the ladder she was— presumably— using to get up there, but that wasn’t really the Done Thing, was it, kicking ladies down ladders. 

Besides, she might have been able to move faster than him. 

“Give me that box,” she said, apparently not in the mood for a repartee. 

“No,” said Vimes, evidently on the same level of witty rejoinders. He backed away a few steps, certain that she would follow. She did, climbing out of the trap door with a scowl. That left the ladder free, then— if he could get to it. She was still blocking the entrance. 

His hand grasped the empty space where his sword should have been. Right. 

He backed up more, and more, until he was on one of the unprotected sides of the roof and there wasn’t a whole lot between him and a certain drop. Then he held the box over the edge. “Don’t get any closer,” he said. “Or I’ll drop this.”    
  
She pointed the knife at him. “I’ll kill you.”    
  
“And then I’ll drop it,” Vimes said. “I don’t know what’ll happen if the container for all this sand breaks— do you?” 

From the looks of things, she didn’t. 

From here, Vimes couldn’t see as much of the city as he ought to have been able to— still obscured by smoke. Street lights were aglow here and there, and dragonfire was burning somewhere in the direction of the Ramkin House. No sight of any incoming golems, nor of pointy golem-trustees or shiny postmasters. He was on his own, at least for now. 

Stall, was the only thing he could think of, and that might have been because he was thinking of dragon pens. 

“So,” he said, conversationally. “Why did you do it?”    
  
Reche looked angry. She held out the knife some more like she was sure she was supposed to be using it somehow, but wasn’t sure where to begin. “I want immortality,” she said at last. Once she had started, she didn’t seem to be able to stop. “I want power. I want to do what I  _ want.”  _

She scowled and began to pace. Vimes watched her— the monologuing type of villains, while less effective than the silent, cold type, tended to be more dangerous, mostly because they’d tell you what they were going to do and then do it. Like Colon said— a man shouldn’t know when or how he’s going to die, particularly if it’s going to be painful. 

“Did you know I had to hire those  _ stupid students  _ just to get into the University Library?  _ I  _ couldn’t go in,  _ no;  _ what would a  _ woman  _ be doing in the Library?” she lifted her lip in a sneer. The skin beneath was turning black, like she was rotting from the inside out. “And then I had to kill them too.” 

“And then you figured out how to use it to make the thralls,” Vimes said. 

She frowned. “Yes. The first time I tried it was an experiment to see if I could take sand out and put it back in. That’s why we made the box. But they came back… wrong.” 

Vimes thought back to the halved bodies in Vetinari’s office shambling towards them anyway, and heartily agreed with her assessment. He glanced over the edge of the house once more, hoping for a glimpse of golem, or, even better, Watchman’s armor. Nothing doing. 

In fact— Vimes looked back once more, frowning— there should have been something there, shouldn’t there? It was hard to think of what when Reche was still in front of him, looking spitting mad. 

“Ah, but then you figured out how to control them,” Vimes said. “Why did you go after the Patrician?” What was missing? It was hard to notice an absence, to see what wasn’t there rather than what was. 

She jabbed her dagger his direction, warningly. “I should rule this city. Vetinari is too soft on it.” 

Vimes had never heard Vetinari described as  _ soft  _ before. Besides, he thought miserably, the man looks like he’d be so bony it’d stab you if you went in for a hug, and if you got that close to him you probably  _ would  _ end up getting stabbed. 

“Ah,” said Vimes, unable to think of anything else. 

He looked down into the empty courtyard. There was still nothing to see, except for a spot of grass that looked a little dug up, like something sharp had hit it. 

Vimes manfully resisted closing his eyes. There it was. His sword, or rather the lack of it. Not to mention the Igor that should have been accompanying it… 

An Igor is a hearty creature. They almost always have another something in their bag of tricks. [16] A roof wouldn’t necessarily kill one of them. 

Vimes had to get off this roof. And hopefully not feet-first. 

One thing no one ever tells you about a standoff is; something has to stop the standoff or else you’ll both be there until you die. Vimes decided he should probably be the one to strike first and lurched forward, purposely obvious in his movements. Reche was not a fighter, or at least not a brawler— she took the bait. 

At the last moment, Vimes juked to the side, moving left instead of straight towards her. 

She stumbled, trying to compensate for the sudden move, and lost her footing. She landed hard on her back and skidded a little, not enough to fall off the roof but that she was at least out of the way. 

Vimes scrambled for the ladder. He and the Igor got there at almost the same time, from opposite sides. Vimes jerked back just in time to avoid getting his own sword to the face— embarrassingly, he went the way of Reche and landed right on his arse. He went skidding the opposite direction, towards one of the sides without a barrier. 

He did not skid off the roof, but he did not come to a stop gracefully either. It was kind of an emergency-landing stop, functional but not anyone’s first choice, and definitely not pretty to look at either. 

“Bugger,” Vimes groaned to himself, and started the process of picking himself back up. His bones ached, not to mention that he was still cold and covered in river goo and sweat and missing one boot. Reche, too, was recovering, and Igor— who looked a little out of joint— approached. 

Vimes had only kept hold of the box by instinct, or maybe luck, which sometimes are the same thing. Reche had dropped the knife somewhere, but she looked even more deadly now— her eyes had started to ooze blackness. The sand-storm above was getting worse. The Igor had Vimes’ own sword pointed at him. 

Well, if a Watchman had to go out— which, of course, all Watchmen do— it might as well be like this. A blaze of glory was overrated. No, this what what a Watchman did; tried very hard to fix the bad things, and sometimes failed. That’s what there were other Watchmen for, and Watchwomen, and whatever Nobby was…    
  
Lady Reche and the Igor’s faces were grim in the dark light of the city, a halo of black life-force swimming behind them. 

Maybe he would risk smashing the box. 

Vimes remembered the time running out of his hourglass. He dug it out of his pocket with the hand not occupied with the box, and held it up. It was still almost empty, only a few grains left, slipping back through to the bottom. He took one final look at his timer— 

And all the sand rushed back into it at once. 

Feeling the relief rush into him in much the same way, Vimes glanced over his shoulder, and found the courtyard bursting with life. And Death. 

It was Ankh-Morpork— not all of it, but enough. Watchmen, shining in torchlight in dented armor, Post Office golems, even palace guards and several angry merchants. Of course the Times was there too, but Sacharissa Cripslock was holding a rake in addition to her notebook, so Vimes assumed she was also there to help. 

Death was leading them all, easily identifiable, ironically enough, not by his strange shape, but by the shining hair of Carrot next to him. He and Vimes locked eyes. 

Behind him, Reche screamed in fury, seeing the backup and thus the writing on the wall— she was not going to get out of this unscathed. 

Not unless she mind-controlled a couple timer-thralls to attack everyone in the courtyard, that was. Which she could apparently do even without the box, which Vimes considered unfair play. 

He tried to think of how Carrot would be arranging rescue operations for their poor commander stuck up on the roof of the rich lady’s house, and then further tried to think of how capable his squads were of actually following and achieving success at those orders. The thralls were coming up behind them fast. 

Vimes jumped off the roof. 

He landed hard enough on Downspout to knock the wind out of him, which was lucky as it strangled the terrified (yet manly) yell that had been building in his throat. 

“Hiya, boss,” Downspout said cheerily, going for some kind of circle to get them to the ground. 

“Hnnerkgggh,” Vimes said. 

“Well said, boss,” Downspout said. 

They circled the air a few more times, making Vimes dizzy, then landed on the street below, where a circle had been cleared from the fighting between Watchmen and thralls. 

Carrot, Angua, and Death were standing in the middle of the cleared patch of earth, a little worse for wear in the case of the mortal members, but all looking mostly all right. Death’s scythe was a little spattered with black, which was more than a little concerning. A being like that should be able to vanish the death goop off his robes, after all, and what did it say if he didn’t? Maybe it was a way to scare people off, in which case it was working. 

Vimes slid off Downspout’s back and bent over with his hands on his knees. 

“Allright, Commander?” Angua said pleasantly. “We’ve brought the squad. And we’ve found your boot.” 

“Good, great,” Vimes said, because he was an emotionally stunted man, and because telling coppers that you’re proud of them simply isn’t done. “I brought you this death box.” He held it out to Death. 

A skeletal hand reached out and accepted it. 

Tʜᴀᴛ's ᴡᴇɪʀᴅ, said Death, which was a fairly unencouraging thing for a celestial being to say. 

“Can you—” Vimes made a vague gesture at everything: the timer-thralls, the death smoke above the house, the darkened city. “With that?” 

Nᴏ. 

“Oh, good,” said Angua. “Well, is there a way to get rid of—” here, she gestured at everything in the same manner as Vimes had. “At all?”

Fɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜᴍᴍᴏɴᴇʀ, said Death, Aɴᴅ I sᴜᴘᴘᴏsᴇ, ғɪɢᴜʀᴇ ɪᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ.

* * *

[14] Daggers were Number 6 on the Ladylike Murder Instruments list. This was behind poison, deadly looks, small poisoned pins, sending-fathers-after-lovers, and beginning wars with Womanly Wiles. Of course, to be a proper Ladylike Instrument, the dagger should have been small and shiny, perhaps engraved, preferably in an ancient but romantic tongue. 

This was not a Ladylike Dagger. This was the kind of dagger that didn’t glint in the light on account of the rust from the blood of previous murders. This was the kind of dagger of the sort women actually used when they wanted to get the job done, away from the prying eyes of the sort of man who had Thoughts on how women should go about dastardly deeds. This was the kind of dagger that you didn’t see until it was already being used, and then you didn’t see anything else ever again. [15] 

[15] Save, of course, a certain skeleton fellow with glowing blue eyes…

[16] Such as a helping hand, helping foot, helping spinal column. 


	7. 7

**GETTING CAUGHT UP • WORDPLAY • LIFE AND DEATH • BAR BRAWL BLUES • CRUSHING DOUBT • MORE GROSS MATTERS**

The timer-thralls were difficult to take out— you couldn’t kill them, and even maiming wasn’t permanent, as the limbs, a disgruntled and gore-spattered Colon told him— would eventually come back together. 

“Gross, it is,” he said, and scratched at the stubble on his face. “But your buddy here— “ Colon indicated Death without looking at him directly— “Is the best at slowing them down. Keeps ‘em occupied for a while at least, searching for all their little bits.” 

“Thanks,” Vimes said. “I think that’s probably enough report for me.” 

Colon saluted and ambled off to shout at some Watchmen that looked like they needed shouting at. 

Vimes sent someone off to find him a sword, since Igor had his, and took the one Cheery gave him without questioning where it came from. There weren’t any helmets to spare, but that wasn’t very high on Vimes’ list of priorities at the moment. His recovered boot was a little mucky but at least he didn’t have to scramble for a new one.

Moist von Lipwig trotted up, shinily, and flanked on all four sides by Post Office golems. “Hello, Commander!” he said. He, unlike most everyone else, didn’t have any death goo anywhere on his person. “I’m thinking commemorative Death Smoke stamps, what do you think?” 

Tʜᴇʏ'ʟʟ sᴇʟʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʜᴏᴛᴄᴀᴋᴇs. 

Moist yelped, apparently not having noticed the hooded figure in the Watchmen’s midst, and hid behind one of the golems. “Do I know you?” he asked, a little muffled by a few hundred pounds of clay. 

Wᴇ ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ᴍᴇᴛ. 

“Oh,” said Moist, a little faintly. “That’s nice.” 

“Did you come here for a reason?” asked Angua. 

“Oh, yes!” said Moist, still hidden behind his golem. “I came to tell you that your bad guys got out the back. The Igor set off a sort of smoke thingy and knocked down a few of your Watchmen and a few of my postal workers, but everyone seems all right.” 

“They’re fine,” said Nobby, revealing himself from the shadows of one of the golems. Vimes hadn’t seen him, possibly out of self preservation. No one wanted to see Nobby if they could help it. “We should look into getting some of those smoke bombs, Commander. They’d be great for distracting the bar fight crowd.”    
  
“Noted,” Vimes said. “We need to catch Lady Reche— let’s start fanning out.” He waved Nobby off, and with him went Moist and the Post golems, where they were needed, or, presumably in Moist’s case, to find somewhere to hide. 

“Actually, sir,” Carrot said. “I talked to the Librarian.” 

“And?” 

“And he agreed to help so long as Death never disclosed what his life-timer said on it. Does that make sense to anyone else?” 

“Wizards,” said Vimes, shaking his head. “What did you need his help for?” 

“I wanted to see if he’d let Angua take a closer smell at the Book, sir,” Carrot says. “Which is why she came to see me after she’d secured the Patrician.”    
  
“With some more time with it, I was able to get the scent better,” Angua said. “I feel pretty confident I can track the person who used that book, sir.”    
  
“But she never came in contact with it,” Vimes said, confused. 

“Magic does that,” Angua said. “The smell gets into you somehow. I don’t know how to explain it.” 

Vimes had been taught growing up never to argue with a lady, and particularly not a lady who could tear your throat out with her teeth. “All right,” he said. “You lead the way, then, Captain.” 

Outside their little staging area, the assembled troops were, if not winning, at least holding their own against the timer-thralls. The city was still dark outside the radius of the manor, but fighting could be heard, and the Watchmen had figured out that there was no smoke near the manor. They were using runners in and out of the dark spots to keep a running communication. 

They could spare Vimes, Angua, Carrot, and Death for a little recon mission. 

Angua led the way, with her nose in the air. Unavoidably, she led them out of the clear space around the house and into the dangerous fog. 

Carrot frowned. “They will be much harder to catch if we can’t see them.”    
  
Death reached out a hand— Vimes didn’t know where the box had gone— and there, glowing in his palm, was a blue orb. The smoke didn’t become any less thick, but it  _ was  _ easier to see through somehow, as if they were passing through patches of sunlight rather than horrifying death smoke. 

“Handy,” said Vimes, vaguely uneased. 

Death inclined his head, and said nothing more. 

The streets were fairly easy to traverse with everyone in hiding or outside the city— it was the first time Vimes could remember not looking for Thieves’ or Assassins’ Guild members hiding out in the shadows of the rooftops or the dark alleyways. 

Angua knew the city, of course, and she led them confidently through it, using passageways they might not have dared any other day. Of course, Carrot was with them, which was a pretty good deterrent against crime even if he hadn’t been wearing a Watchman’s badge and walking an empty city. 

Death didn’t look too out of place. He walked the streets of Ankh-Morpork every day too. 

Captain Angua led the group like an armored duck, leading her vaguely bedraggled ducklings. It wasn’t a very straight path, as Angua stopped here and there to get the scent again, and lost it for a moment as they passed by one of Dibbler’s stalls. 

But eventually she led them into a row of poorer-looking houses— a little shantytown popped up in the middle of the city for the workers in the richer manors. Vimes didn’t think that Reche was fleeing to the house of one of her servants— people like that barely knew their underlings existed at all, much less lived and ate and slept. 

“Why would she go here?” Vimes asked, frowning. 

“It’s the only place around that’s not gated off,” Carrot pointed out. “Only place to hide.” 

Vimes had to concede the point. He turned to Angua. “Can you tell where they are more specifically?” 

Angua tilted her head up to catch the breeze, sneezed, and shook her head. “Sorry, Commander. Too many people live here, too many smells.” 

Vimes nodded. “Death?” 

Death tilted his head. The folds of his robes swished darkly. 

“Erm?” Carrot asked Vimes quietly. 

“Dunno,” Vimes said. “Maybe he’s, you know, cogitating.”

Carrot looked scandalized. “In public?” 

Angua snorted a laugh into her hand. When Vimes and Carrot looked at her, she pretended to be concentrating on smelling out their criminals again. 

Death cleared his throat. Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ᴀ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴄᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ. I ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ I ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ. Fᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ.

He was very polite for an anthropomorphic personification. 

They followed him. 

He circled around a few times, quite similar to Angua in the way he followed the trail. They ended up, eventually, at a small building with harshly-scrubbed white walls. 

It was called  _ Mrs. Mary’s Midwifry and Apothcry.  _

Aʜ, said Death. Iʀᴏɴʏ.

“Isn’t no iron around here, sir,” Carrot said helpfully, ever the dwarf. “The building’s made out of plaster.” 

Mʏ ᴍɪsᴛᴀᴋᴇ.

“But it is funny, though,” Vimes said. “You know, going somewhere lives are supposed to be created, not ended.” 

In that moment, no one, possibly Vimes included, could tell if he was being facetious. There was a moment of silence. Carrot, who had missed the awkwardness, was surveying the building. 

“There’s no death smoke around here, Commander,” he said. “Shouldn’t there be a whole lot?” 

Lᴇᴛ ᴜs ᴛʀʏ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ, said Death. 

They went around back. 

“Oh,” said Angua, quietly. “There it is.”    


The whole back of the building was consumed in smoke, dark and thick. Vimes had trouble imagining the midwifery behind it— it seemed like it should lead into empty space, a dark swirling universe, possibly with its own disc and elephants and turtle… These were the kind of thoughts that made Vimes a little knurd-ish, so instead he reached out and poked some of the darkness with his sword. 

It swirled around the metal angrily, but didn’t immediately melt it or anything else Vimes had been worried about. “It’s safe to go in,” he said, and poked the sword in again. “I should think.” 

Carrot nodded. Then he walked into the smoke. 

“Now that I think of it,” said Vimes, a little nervously, “I don’t know if I was completely right.” 

They waited. 

Then Carrot stuck his big head out of the smoke and smiled at them. “I did not get disintegrated or otherwise maimed, sir,” he said. 

Vimes cleared his throat. “As I suspected.” 

They walked inside— Death’s strange light didn’t seem to penetrate this smoke. 

Sʜᴇ ʜᴀs ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪɴɢs. 

“What do you mean?” Angua asked, as they gingerly peeked in the back door. “We’re talking to Death, aren’t we?” 

I ᴀᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ, ᴡʜᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴍɪᴛ ɪᴛ ᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛ. Death stepped aside politely to let the officers in the door first. They decided not to answer that statement. 

The midwifery inside would have definitely qualified for Haunted Hospitals Monthly, should someone risk being disintegrated or otherwise maimed to make such a thing. This was the Gold Standard of spooky places, the abandoned hospital that all other abandoned hospitals aspired to be. 

In one corner, a bassinet creaked as it rocked on its own. It was probably the wind from the death smoke, and possibly a very, very small ghost. 

“Look,” Angua said, kneeling on the floor. “Blood. It’s from the Igor— I can smell it.” 

“I did get a bit stabby with that fellow,” said Vimes, a little proudly. 

“And then he dumped you off the roof?” Angua said. 

Vimes gave her a Remember-I’m-Your-Superior-Officer look and she gave him an Okay-I’m-Sorry-But-Not-Really look back. [17]

“Then we ought to find them,” Carrot declared, drawing his sword, which was still shiny despite the events of the day. Vimes swore for just a moment that he saw it cut through the fog, but then the illusion was gone and Carrot and Death were leading the way into the rest of the hospital. 

The midwives must have all evacuated— you won’t find anything more efficient than a group of women with small creatures in their care— because not a thing moved.

“Where are the thralls?” Angua asked apprehensively. 

“The Watchmen are keeping them busy?” Vimes said, without much hope. 

There was a  _ squelch,  _ then a sudden, weighty silence. 

Gʀᴏss, said Death. Everyone looked down. 

Death had stepped in— or over, or through, or whatever it was Death did— a puddle of the timer-thralls’ black goo. This was the goo that emerged whenever the thralls got injured. Unfortunately, that was easy to tell. There were several drag marks through the puddle, like many people missing a foot or a leg or most of a body had made their laborious way through. 

Death discreetly used his robe to wipe at the bottom of his boney feet. 

“Guess that answers that,” Carrot said, and straightened himself up to his full height, which was impressive in and of itself. “Let’s go.” 

Vimes was of the school of thought that a man shouldn’t know about midwife things— he made an effort not to look too long at any of the equipment around, just in case. A father should be stationed outside the door with a cigar, he felt. 

Clearly the designers of the place had felt the same— as they trekked through the building, peering into open doors, Vimes caught sight of a visitor’s room, decked out in uncomfortable-looking chairs [18] and a couple of old issues of the  _ Times.  _ The floor was smeared with something. 

Finally finding a room he was comfortable with examining further, Vimes split off. 

He was half-expecting to find more of the Igor’s blood, or perhaps the goo from the thralls. Instead, his boots crunched in something gritty— sand. He crouched down to look at it, and ran some through his fingers. 

Then he whistled for his team to come back. 

Angua was there first, bouncing on her toes and looking eager. “Yessir!” she said, then visibly brought herself together. “I mean, yes, sir. What did you find?”    
  
“This is sand from the timers,” Vimes said, as Carrot and Death crowded into the room to look. “But it’s not swirling like the sand in the house.”

Death crouched down, black robes pooling around his feet. He picked up some of the sand and rubbed it between his skeletal pointer and thumb fingers. Tʜɪs ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢs ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ. 

“Lady Reche’s? You can tell?” Carrot asked. 

I ᴄᴀɴ ᴛᴇʟʟ, Death echoed, then fell silent. 

“That can’t be a good thing,” Angua said, frowning. “If she’s leaking sand, I mean. Isn’t that like— I don’t know— bleeding out?” 

Death considered this. Oɴ ᴀ ᴍᴇᴛᴀᴘʜʏsɪᴄᴀʟ ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ, sᴏʀᴛ ᴏғ, he said. Bᴜᴛ ᴏɴ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ. 

“How many levels are there?” Vimes asked. 

Sɪx. Death said. Tʜɪs ᴡᴀʏ. Without further ado, he turned and led them on, through the waiting room into the rooms beyond. 

It would be nice to say that they heard Reche and the thralls far before they saw them. It would even be nice to say that they smelled Reche and the thralls before they saw them. Touching the thralls would be nicer. Tasting them might have been odd, but even that would have been preferable. But they didn’t. 

Instead, they  _ sensed  _ them before anything else; all the senses at once— a feeling of overwhelming dread and wrongness, a shiver up the spine, leaving you wanting to tuck your tail between your legs and run. Vimes could in fact taste and touch and smell and hear them all at once. It was a thick, cloying smell, like rot and dead body and expensive perfume, so thick in the air you really can’t help but move it like a real thing, taste it in your mouth. 

Vimes, Angua, and Carrot gagged, and then they saw Reche and the thralls. 

They were gathered in a room that must have been the nursery. Reche was sitting in a rocking chair on the far side of the room, rocking slowly. Her eyes were bleeding sand. 

The rest of the room was filled with thralls. 

As they approached, the Igor burst from the pack and ran towards the door. “I rethign my commithion, mithtreth!” he said, bolting. “I’ll put thith on my rethume—” one of the thralls seized him and snapped his neck. 

Vimes swore in surprise. Death flickered out for a moment, then returned. Vimes wondered when it had gotten that he  _ hoped  _ Death had gotten to someone. The other options for poor Igor were not good. 

I ᴡᴀɴᴛ Lᴀᴅʏ Rᴇᴄʜᴇ, Death said. Oғғɪᴄᴇʀs, ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇ sᴏ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴀs ᴛᴏ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴀᴛʜ?

Vimes, Carrot, and Angua looked at each other. Then, as one, they smiled. 

“I think we can do that,” Angua said, stretching her shoulders. 

“In fact, it would be our honor,” Vimes said.

* * *

[17] Angua had been a teenage girl once, so she was fluent in this silent language. She could still speak Eye Roll. 

[18] A law of waiting rooms. The longer a person might be forced to wait there, the worse designed the chairs are. [19]

[19] This is why monks like to kneel on those hard, uncomfortable mats. No one waits like a monk. 

* * *

Ankh-Morpork is one of the only cities on the Disc to have a signature bar-brawl move. It’s called the Punch-Em-And-Run, which is really all you need to know about Ankh-Morpork. 

Carrot led the way in; like a bear burrowing a path for her smaller cubs through snow. He was very good at the Punch-Em-And-Run, using the butt of his sword to club people out of the way. Vimes and Angua followed on his two sides, like the points of an arrow. 

Carrot swept the path ahead, Vimes the right and Angua the left, clearing the way for Death, walking in their shadows. 

They mowed through the room, pushing people back as the main goal, slicing and throwing dirty punches when they couldn’t. 

Vimes narrowed his entire focus on the fight. Punch. Shove. Stab. He got so covered in the thralls’ black goo that he fumbled his sword and almost dropped it, sliding in the gore on the ground before he found his feet. 

But slowly but surely, they made their way into the room. 

At one point, Vimes thought they would be crushed among the bodies, pressed so tightly together that no one was attacking so much as  _ squeezing,  _ a claustrophobic, breathless feeling. Nails raked across his armor, functionally claws. Their wielders didn’t care for their own pain, the thralls scratching him until their own nails bled black. 

Wʜʏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ғʀᴏᴍ ʜᴇʀᴇ? Death’s voice rumbled through the room.

Vimes didn’t see what happened next— not properly— but even years later he would probably concede that was for the better. 

He heard Death’s scythe slide through the air, fast enough and strong enough you could almost hear the air ripping. He also heard several distinct and disgusting tearing sounds. Very fleshy. 

Death’s interference bought them room to breathe [20], and the Watchmen pushed through the crowds, enough to elbow and scratch their way out. They immediately jumped back into the fray.

They had given Death enough space to get through to the other side of the room. The Watch held back the stragglers, and Death scythed the rest down. 

Finally, as if he’d always been there, Death stood in front of Lady Reche. She was still just sitting there, apparently not inclined to fight further, even if she could. Every part of her was leaking black, her fingernails dissolving at the ends into sand, black goo coming out of her ears. She didn’t stand, just looking up at Death. He stood there in his black robes, with his blue eyes and his gleaming scythe. 

“I was going to live forever,” she said, quietly. 

Tʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʟᴏɴᴇʟʏ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ. 

Death reached forward and ripped out her heart. 

It gave with an ease that hinted at Death’s immense strength, or at the weakness of the Lady’s body. It pulled in a spray of black— no red to be seen. Sand poured between Death’s fingers. 

Without moving anything else, Death brought out the box Reche had used to create the thralls and dropped the heart into it. 

Lady Reche stared for a moment, as if surprised, and then died with no further fanfare. 

The thralls all dropped to the ground where they stood, not so much as a dying groan to indicate their passing. Not with a bang, not with a whimper, but a not-whimper, or however the saying went. 

Death looked at his gooey hand. Dᴏᴇs ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʜᴀɴᴅᴋᴇʀᴄʜɪᴇғ? 

Politely, Carrot offered his. “You keep it, sir,” he said. 

All around the room, the smoke was fading, siphoning back up and into the box. Vimes chanced a look out the window. It was clearing up out there as well. “Well, what do you know?” he said. “We did it.” 

* * *

[20] This was a day of ironies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! One more chapter after this. Thanks for reading!


	8. 7a

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who's taken the time to read and review.

**AFTERMATH • CLEANUP • REFERENCING ANOTHER CHARACTER WHO DIDN’T MAKE IT IN • GOODBYES • AFTER THIS VIMES GOES HOME AND TAKES A NAP**

Ankh-Morpork had been rebuilt over and over again throughout the years— it didn’t take long for reconstruction, such as it was, to begin. There was not as much property damage as Vimes had expected, most of the harm being done to people unlucky enough to get in the thralls’ way; that and the thralls themselves. They were victims too. 

The Palace— and the Patrician— got to look good by having a little memorial service- _ cum _ -festival. The citizens of Ankh-Morpork got to get drunk [21] and sing bawdy songs about their dead friends [22].

The Watch was kept busy, keeping the peace and being honored for their various services. 

The thing was that most couldn’t really recall what the crisis had been in the first place. 

It was kind of a blur— people remembered the life-timers but not what they looked like, or how much sand was in them. The timers had disappeared at the same instant as Lady Reche. Left behind was only a kind of vague memory of a menace, darkness and not much else.

Vimes, Carrot, and Angua seemed to remember the most, but even that was fading. 

Death found Vimes again in his office, working on paperwork. 

“Hello,” Vimes said, awkwardly. Just what  _ did  _ a man say to an anthropomorphized personification of death whom you had just seen rip out a woman’s still beating heart, he wondered. Perhaps there was a card for it. “Er, are things… all right now?”    
  
Tʜᴇ ʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ Dɪsᴄ ɪs ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ɴᴏʀᴍᴀʟ. Death said. Nᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀʀʏ. Yᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴀʟʟ ᴅɪᴇ ᴏɴ sᴄʜᴇᴅᴜʟᴇ. 

“Oh. Good.” Vimes shuffled a few papers around on his desk, then stood so he was at Death’s level. “Cleanup is going fine around here as well. We haven’t seen you— what have you been up to?” 

I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ғᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ sᴏᴜʟs ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇʀ-ᴛʜʀᴀʟʟs. Tʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴏɴ.

“Oh,” said Vimes. “To…?” 

Glowing blue eyes stared at him. 

“Right,” said Vimes, a little embarrassed. “Never mind.” 

I ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴀʟʟ ᴡᴀs ᴡᴇʟʟ, Death said. He shuffled. Aɴᴅ ᴀʟsᴏ…

Vimes had a brief moment of panic, trying desperately to remember how much had been in his timer. Death seemed like a multitasker. 

Death reached under his robe. That was where the scythe lived, wasn’t it? Vimes winced. 

Death emerged with… 

A homemade card. 

He held it out to Vimes, who took it. At Death’s expectant look, he opened it. There was a picture of a raven, holding a dead flower in its beak.  _ Tʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ,  _ it read, in letters that kind of made Vimes’ head hurt.  _ I ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀssɪsᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ɪɴ ᴅᴇʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀs.  _

Mʏ ɢʀᴀɴᴅᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ sᴀʏs ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ-ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʀᴅs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴏʟɪᴛᴇ, Death said. Aɴᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ɪᴍᴘᴏʟɪᴛᴇ ʙᴏʏs ᴀɴᴅ ɢɪʀʟs ғᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ sᴇɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ.

“That’s very… thoughtful,” Vimes said. “Thanks. The missus will love to see it.” He didn’t know why he said that. Possibly too much culture had seeped in through his armor. Next thing you knew,  _ Vimes  _ would be a polite boy. He shuddered at the thought. 

Either way, Death seemed to perk up. I ᴀᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ, he said. Wᴇʟʟ, I ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ʙᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ, he said. Dᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴡᴀɪᴛs ғᴏʀ ɴᴏ ᴍᴀɴ. There was an amused pause. I ᴀᴍ sᴏʀʀʏ. I ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇsɪsᴛ. I sᴜsᴘᴇᴄᴛ I ᴡɪʟʟ sᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, Cᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʀ Vɪᴍᴇs.

“Not too soon, okay?” Vimes said. 

Death, Vimes thought, might have smiled. 

Already, Vimes could hardly remember what their ally had looked like— the impressions of shadows, of something glowing and blue. That was probably for the best.

* * *

[21] Respectfully. 

[22] Slightly less respectfully. 

* * *

“It’s beautiful, sir,” Carrot said, wiping a tear. It had taken him a good three minutes to decipher the card— decorated with a horse being eaten by a lion— during which Death had waited patiently. “Thank you. That will go up on the wall in my room.” 

I ᴀᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏsɪᴛɪᴠᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, Death said. Cᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ Aɴɢᴜᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴡ ᴀ ᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴍᴇ. I sᴛᴀʀᴛʟᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ.

“That’s Angua,” Carrot said fondly. “Thank you for the card. But it’s our duty as Watchmen. We don’t need thanks.” 

Pᴏʟɪᴛᴇɴᴇss ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴜʀᴛs, Death said. I ᴍᴜsᴛ ɢᴏ ɴᴏᴡ. I'ʟʟ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ sɪᴅᴇ.

“Wait, sir,” Carrot said, stopping Death politely. 

Yᴇs, Cᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ?

“I was wondering,” said Carrot. 

A ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜs ᴘᴀsᴛɪᴍᴇ. 

Carrot smiled a little. “Yes. These life-timers, they’re our True Names?” 

Yᴇs.

“Oh,” said Carrot. He brought something out of his pocket: the last life-timer in the whole of Ankh-Morpork. He looked at it, and ran a finger over the letters. “I always wondered,” he said, almost to himself. Then he looked up at Death. “If I may, I’d prefer it to say Carrot Ironfoundersson. Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, that is.” 

Wᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛs. 

Carrot smiled that broad, trustworthy smile. “I think I’m probably going to insist.” 

Sᴏᴍᴇ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ sᴀʏ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʜᴇʀɪᴛᴀɢᴇ.

“Heritage,” Carrot said. “What’s a heritage without my parents? Without the Watch and the Fine Men and Women and Other Beings who worked to protect the city before I showed up?” He smiled again. “Turning my back? Not as far as I see it. I think I’d be proud to be buried under the name of my ma and da, the old dwarfs, just like I live under it.” Carrot held out his hourglass. 

Death took it with one long spindly hand. Something about him suggested a faintly approving air. 

As ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪsʜ, he said, and gave it to Carrot for inspection. It was now engraved with Dwarfish runic letters, but the  _ Captain  _ part was written in Morporkian. Yᴏᴜʀ Tʀᴜᴇ Nᴀᴍᴇ, he said. Gᴏᴏᴅ Lᴜᴄᴋ.

“Thanks,” said Carrot, looking quite pleased with himself. He gave it back. “You have a good day, sir.” 

Tʜᴇ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ, said Death in a musing sort of tone. Yᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴄᴇᴀsᴇ ᴛᴏ sᴜʀᴘʀɪsᴇ ᴍᴇ.

“Speaking of that,” said Carrot. “I meant to ask. How come you came to the Watch for help? I’m sure the wizards or the witches or the Patrician could have done it.” 

Death didn’t have teeth, but he could almost smile. I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀs ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴀɴʏ Wᴀᴛᴄʜᴍᴇɴ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀs, he said. Iɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ Cᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʀ Vɪᴍᴇs. Hᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ.

“And?” 

Aɴᴅ, said Death, leaning in close, Eᴠᴇʀʏ Wᴀᴛᴄʜᴍᴀɴ I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴛ ʜᴀs ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ғɪɢʜᴛ ᴍᴇ. Hᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴅᴀʏ, Cᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ Cᴀʀʀᴏᴛ.

Carrot saluted. Death disappeared. Now it was on to patrol, after which he was to have dinner with Commander Vimes and Lady Vimes. Small Vimes, of course, would need a gift brought; Carrot thought he would visit one of the dwarfen bakeries for a sweet. Through the window in his office, it was sunny and chattering with life. Carrot pinned the card onto his wall, then stood up and went to the window. 

He leaned out it. “Two o’clock!” he said. “And all’s well!” 


End file.
